by Jack Yeovil
'Wolf. Where's Wolf?'
Cicatrice raised a six-taloned hand, and pointed down at the earth, then made a general gesture, indicating the whole area.
'Here?' Cicatrice nodded.
'What have you done to him?'
'What have I done to him!' Cicatrice gathered his voice, and forced the words out. 'What have I done to him? Why, my dear baron, surely you should ask what has he done to me?'
He held a claw to his opened breast, and dipped it in the blood.
'Wolf fought you? Wounded you?'
The laugh came again×the laugh Johann had been hearing from too many throats since this began×and Cicatrice's smile became cruel and indignant. Johann could see the shadow of the fearsome warrior chieftain's face over the shrunken and abused features of this poor creature.
'Wolf has killed me.'
With a certain pride, Johann turned to Vukotich. The Iron Man was an iron statue, his face unreadable. 'You see, Vukotich,' he said, 'Wolf resisted all these years. Here, in the heart of darkness, Wolf has turned on his captors and escaped.'
'No,' said Cicatrice, barely able to control his spasming now. These were his last minutes, last seconds 'No, he has not escaped. Wolf now leads my army. For two years now, he has ridden at the head of our columns, planned our raids. I'm an old man. I've been tolerated. Until now. Now the Scar is dead, and the Young Wolf will have his time.'
Cicatrice reached into his wound, and pulled at his beating heart, holding it up.
'At least your brother chose to kill me face to face. His blade didn't come from the back.'
Blood ran through Cicatrice's talons. His heart puffed up like a toad and then collapsed. With his last strength, the bandit squeezed out his own life.
On the way back to the village, it was Vukotich who supported Johann, guiding him as an enchanter might one of the raised dead. Suddenly, the thousands of miles he had travelled in the past ten years weighed heavy upon him, as if each were a measure of time, not distance.
He had been concentrating so hard upon his search, his quest, that he had failed to perceive the shifting circumstances that now rendered the whole endeavour all but meaningless.
Wolf was in no need of rescue. A few days ago, Wolf had sent four creatures to kill his brother. In the last two years, how many traps and schemes had he created? How he must wish him dead!
'It's not Wolf,' Vukotich said. 'Whatever he has become, it's not Wolf. Your brother died a long time ago, in the woods, in Sudenland. He spilled his innocent blood. What we must find×find and destroy×is like the thing we burned in the forest, a monstrosity using what's left of his body.'
Johann had no argument.
By the time they were back in the village, the sky was already darkening. Days really were short this far north. Johann heard distant thunder, in the ground, and imagined the hordes stirring from their sleep, examining themselves for new alterations, new improvements.
Would he even recognise Wolf?
Kleinzack was standing before his hall, surrounded by his people. Mischa was chanting, and dancing epileptically, invoking long-dead deities, calling for protection from all manner of perils. The villagers had stowed their day's prizes, and were preparing for another night of cowering.
Johann would have to stay outside this night, and search through the carnage for his brother, seek to challenge him to mortal combat. He had no doubt that he could survive in the thick of a melee, but he wondered if he could come so close to the creatures of the warp-stone, with their roiling auras of evil, without himself beginning the long, slow metamorphosis into monstrosity. If he were to start altering, he thought he could trust Vukotich to stick a spear through him.
A circle noosed around his left ankle, biting into the leather of his boot, and he was pulled off balance. He saw the wire rising out of the earth as it was reeled in. Kleinzack jumped aside as the whirring machine behind him pulled the steel thread in yard by yard. Darvi was working a handle. Johann fell badly, jarring his back, and was dragged too fast across the ground to sit up and free himself. His clothes were abraded, and his sword-hilt dug into the ground like a plough. A net was thrown over him, and he felt a metal-tipped boot impact with his ribs. His arms were tangled in the net, and he felt heavy weights on them. Anna and Katinka were kneeling, pressing him to the ground as they hammered pegs down, pinning the net, limiting his movement.
Twisting his head, he saw Vukotich spinning his broken lance, surrounded by six or seven of Darvi's brawny corpse-strippers. He gored one through, but his weapon was tugged out of his grip and the circle closed. He went down under it. Later, when they'd avenged their friend with a severe pummelling, they dragged him to the hall and pinned him out beside Johann.
Approaching carefully, Kleinzack and Darvi extracted the weapons from Johann's sheaths. He tried to resist, but only got another kick for his pains. The dwarf made a great play of examining the sword, appreciating the workmanship, and then taking it away.
All the while, Mischa danced, sprinkling foul-smelling liquid on Johann, daubing arcane symbols on the earth, and reciting from various scrolls of manuscript he kept about his person.
Johann gathered he and Vukotich were being laid out to appease the gods. At least, that was what Mischa was telling the villagers.
Eventually, the mad priest stopped, and went inside with the rest of the villagers.
Above the net, the sky was nearly black. The subterranean sounds were louder now and Johann could feel the earth under him shaking. He tensed all his muscles and exerted as much pull as he could. One of the pegs popped out of the ground, and his right hand was free. He strained again. The pegs were loosening, but it would take time to fight his way out of the net.
Then a shadow fell over him, and he heard the now familiar laugh. It was Kleinzack.
'Happy now, excellency? You'll soon see your brother. I'm only sorry I shan't be here to witness your touching reunion, to see your first embrace after so many years'
The dwarf's hands were on him, patting pockets for coins.
'Of course, your brother has already paid me well for arranging this little get-together, but I don't see why I shouldn't also extract some tribute from you. It's only fair.'
Kleinzack took the pouches from Johann's belt, and the amulet with the family crest from his neck. Then he tried to work off the signet ring from his right hand.
Johann grabbed the dwarf's hand and held tight. Kleinzack thumped him, hard, but was still held. He spat in the dwarf's face and, summoning all his strength, sat up. Pegs burst free×those driven by Anna seemed a shade less well-rooted than those Katinka had seen to×and the net gathered in Johann's lap as he fought loose of it.
Kleinzack's gloating smarm had bubbled away, and his face was a mask of terror. He started blubbering, begging for mercy.
The ground was trembling constantly now, and he could hear hooves, the clanking of armour, shouts of defiance and other, barely human, sounds. A great many creatures were coming this way.
He held Kleinzack at arms' length. The stubby legs kicked, but the mayor couldn't reach Johann's torso. He had adjusted his grip now, and held the dwarf by a fistful of jerkin, just under the protruding hilt of the sword.
'You've left me here, unarmed, to die, dwarf.'
Kleinzack didn't say anything, just drooled. His bowels had let go, and he was dripping.
'You took away my sword. Up here, that's as much murder as taking away my life.'
There were creatures around them in the darkness, human and otherwise.
'You owe me a sword, Kleinzack. I'll take yours.'
He threw Kleinzack upwards. The dwarf seemed to hang in the air for a moment, eyes wide with disbelief. Johann reached out and grasped the hilt of the sword in the mayor. The dwarf's weight dragged it down. Kleinzack screamed as the sharp blade shifted in his chest. The point of the sword dug a few inches into the ground. He put a boot on Kleinzack's belly, and pushed the dwarf's body down the length of the sword. The straps and belts came fr
ee, and Kleinzack flailed, the long-ago killing stroke finally accomplishing its purpose.
Johann drew his new sword from its scabbard of flesh, and kicked the, dead dwarf away.
The fighting had begun, and the dark was pierced by bright flashes. Fires were started, and creatures hurled themselves against each other. An altered head rolled past Johann's feet as he cut Vukotich loose from his net. A cannonade exploded close by and Vukotich took a peppering of shot in one leg. Johann felt blood pouring down his face, from a chip lodged in his forehead, and tried to smear it away.
Nobody was paying particular attention to them, although Johann killed anything that came within a few yards of them, just to make sure. Vukotich took a two-bladed, dagger-topped waraxe from a fallen troll, and split the face of a bear-faced Norse warrior who was hefting a sword at him. As the bearman fell, Johann saw the scarface design on his belt-buckle. He had been one of Cicatrice's.
No, one of Wolf's.
Johann and Vukotich fell back against the hall, leaning on the roof. It was a defensible position. Before them, the warriors hacked and slashed at each other, not caring who they wounded. Ribbons of blood flew through the air. The killing continued.
They didn't have to wait long.
Among the frighteningly random conflict there walked one group who seemed cooler, murderous but purposefully so. They fought their way through the throng towards the hall, towards Johann and Vukotich. There were less than they might have expected×Wolf must have taken bad losses during the last week of fighting by night×but they were death-hardened. Each wore, somewhere about him, the scar.
And one luxuriously-maned, red-eyed, fang-snouted giant wore it as a blood-coloured tattoo across his face.
Wolf.
Wolf growled, low and feral in the back of his throat. Then the growl rose to a snarl, and spittle flew from his lupine snout. Then the snarl ended with a gulped intake of air, and Wolf's chest swelled. He howled like the animal he had become, baying at the skies. He clutched and unclutched his great, furred fists.
He carried no weapons but the three-inch, razor-edged claws that ended his fingers and toes, and the rows of teeth in his face. Johann guessed that with those natural assets he wouldn't need to.
Again, Vukotich had been right. There was nothing, that he could see, left of his little brother.
Then the wolf smiled at him, and passed a claw through the air, bidding him come forward.
Wolf's bandits held back, keeping the rest of the battle away from the area now marked out for the fight to the death.
'Forgive me,' Johann said, as he lashed out with Kleinzack's sword. Wolf threw up an arm, tendons shifting beneath his pelt, and the swordblow was deflected. The altered Wolf must have iron in his muscle and bone. Johann's strike had left a graze, which trickled blood, but no more. It should have sheared through, severing the arm.
Wolf moved fast and Johann had to stumble backwards, losing his footing, to avoid the snipping of the claws. Wolf kicked out with a barbed, bootless foot, and a claw-toe raked across Johann's stomach, cutting through his layered-leather armour. He pushed upwards as he stood, grabbing Wolf's ankle with both hands and turning it, off-balancing the creature that had been his brother. Almost immediately, he lost his grip and Wolf was righting himself. He stood like a man, ready to wrestle with the arts they had been taught as boys, but he fought like a beast, who had to use tooth and claw or go hungry tonight.
Vukotich was still leaning against the sloping roof of the hall, breathing heavily. He was watching his pupils, but also wary of Wolf's comrades, ready to pitch in with an axe if the strangely altered rules of fair combat were breached. Otherwise, he was leaving Johann and Wolf to their struggle.
Johann saw that Wolf had indeed grown with his alterations, finding a shape to fit his name, yet retaining every spark of his intelligence. His eyes were cruel but gleamed with sharpness of mind. The clawstroke across his face marked him as a leader. He would never have been baron, but he had proved that he could rise to power by his own designs.
Had Johann not missed his deer, what would Wolf have made of himself? How would his strength, now perverted into monstrosity, have been made manifest? Truly, the division between Hero and Hellspawn is fine, no thicker than a slender arrow
The cut at his belly had gone deeper than he thought, and he felt his own blood soaking the inside of his clothes. Knots of pain were forming, too, and he tried not to think of the depth of his wounds. He had seen men vainly trying to coil their insides back in, and knew how permanent damage to the vitals was. Wolf showed no sign of hurt, although he had struck him again and again with the edge of Kleinzack's sword. His brother's hide was thicker than any armour.
They circled each other, like wrestlers looking for a good hold. He remembered that he had always bested his brother when they were boys. The three years between them gave him the advantage, and Wolf had been shamed only when Johann, hoping to give his brother a taste of victory, had held back and allowed himself to be beaten. Had that experience festered in the captive boy's mind while the powers of the warpstone were exerted on him? Was that the secret anger that had fuelled his alteration?
Johann bled from the shoulder now, almost the exact spot where he had wounded Wolf so many years ago, and wondered whether that claw-thrust had been a deliberate reminder.
Wolf wore a metal shoulderpiece with the mark of Cicatrice picked out in jewels, covering the site of his long-healed wound. It was one of several for-show scraps of armour adorning his body.
Wolf jabbed again, with a blade-tipped forefinger, and again gored his shoulder. Now, he was sure it was deliberate. Wolf was drawing the fight out, reminding him of the long-ago error that had brought them to this
He heard a clash and a scream, and glimpsed a tableau behind Wolf. One of the bandits had gone for Vukotich and was on its knees in front of the Iron Man, axe embedded between its eyes. The axe came free and Vukotich whirled to take on another attacker. Things were coming to an end and Wolf's men were clearing up the side issues.
Wolf dropped to all fours and charged like an animal, his long, still-golden hair streaming behind him. His back arched, and Johann saw the points of his vertebrae thrust against his skin. With a two-handed grip, he sliced into Wolf's humped back, aiming for the spinal column. Hide peeled and the sword jarred in his hands. Wolf roared, apparently feeling pain for the first time in the fight. He twisted away, rolling in a ball, and then stood like a man again, and closed with his brother.
Johann's swordpoint touched his breast, and he froze. Wolf looked at Johann, the sword held between them. Johann had a good grip and Wolf leaned forward into it. His hairy skin dimpled around the sharp end of the blade, and Johann felt the hilt pushed against his stomach. He could let go of the sword and it would stay between them, held by their bodies. For an instant, the brothers locked eyes, and he knew he was lost. Wolf snarled, strings of saliva hanging from his snout, and coals glowed deep in his blood-filled eyes.
Wolf held his shoulders and pulled his brother towards him in a killing embrace. The sword should have burst through the skin, and pierced his heart neatly
Instead, the sword bent. First, it simply strained and Johann felt the pommel driving painfully into his wounded gut. Then, with an agonising creak, a natural weakness in the iron was worked on, and the weapon bent as easily as a green branch. Wolf's snarl continued and the sword was pulled out of Johann's hand. It fell away, useless.
Vukotich was still fighting. Three of Wolf's men were out, but the last two had him pinned to the roof, and were cutting him. The Iron Man was bleeding badly and his blood had an unhealthy, greenish tinge.
Wolf and Johann grappled with each other, wrestling again. He felt the claws going into his wounded shoulder, digging deep in the flesh. He brought his knee up, and slammed into Wolf's rock-hard belly. The blow had no effect. He took a handful of Wolf's hair, and tugged it sharply. A patch came away bloody, but Wolf didn't flinch. Wolf made a fist, and aimed for Johann's face.
He took the blow on his chin, and reeled back, his head ringing, his vision shaking.
His shoulder was a fiery mass of pain now. And his left knee wasn't working properly. And he had no weapons save for his hands. And his mind.
Wolf howled, with a note of triumph, and came after him. He was tempted to turn and run. But he wouldn't get ten feet in the battle anyway. He might as well die by Wolf's hand as by that of an unknown minion of the night.
He made a hard-edge of his hand, as the monks of Nippon were known to do, and chopped at Wolf's neck. Wolf moved before the blow could land, and he skinned the leading edge of his hand on the jewelled armour plate.
Wolf screamed, and lashed out clumsily, claws closing in the air a foot to the left of Johann's face.
That was the reminder he needed. That was the message what was left of his brother had been giving him. He felt the pain in his own shoulder, but ignored it, and took hold of the scarface-marked armour piece.
He wrenched it off, and looked at the patch of untreated, rotted wound beneath. Worms writhed in it, a flash of bone could be seen in the mangled meat. The fur around was grey.
Wolf looked at Johann with the eyes of the boy he had been, and silently begged for it to be over.
Johann found a sword on the ground, bloodied but unbroken. Wolf was down on one knee, as if waiting to be knighted. Johann calculated that he could drive the blade through the old wound, past the shoulderbones, and into his brother's heart.
The flow of blood from his temple had halted, but there were tears on his face, salt stinging a cut on his cheek.
Johann hefted the sword aloft, and held it point-down above Wolf, ready to thrust deep, ready to finish his quest
But things changed, and Vukotich was under him, between the brothers, mortally wounded but still moving. Johann had already begun to bring the blade down. It slipped into the Iron Man just below the v of his throat and slid through flesh and bone.