by Andy Remic
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.
HARSH TIMES
Rokroth was a town bordering on the size of a small city. It was busy, in that buildings crowded one another and the population outweighed the housing. The vast Rokroth Marshes to the south and west provided much employment, for they were warm and rich in fast-breeding eels; a delicacy favoured in the wealthy capital city of Drakerath, and the military capital of Vagan, and also sought out by minor nobles and dignitaries throughout Vagandrak seeking to impress by replicating the dishes on the royal table. There were other uses for the creatures; as well as food, eel-skin leather was smooth and very strong, and an eel’s blood was toxic to humans and formed the basis for various apothecary drugs and poisons.
Throughout Rokroth, street gangs of homeless children ran through the mud. Dogs barked. Whores whored and dandies paraded. The rain came down hard. It always rained in Rokroth. It was an ongoing joke, although few found it truly funny. Especially those who lived there.
It was seven in the morning, and an optimistic sun was attempting to burn the mist from the streets and fields and marshes. Winter was nearly here and soon the lands of Vagandrak would be conquered by the Gods of Ice and Snow.
Kiki lay in a cellar back room. It was not an underground tavern exactly, it was just a place to go.
It was dark. The room was filled with low, comfy couches. Smoke filled the air. Thick, and choking, but ultimately, a smoke of comfort.
Figures sprawled throughout the gloom like discarded gloves.
Kiki lay on a couch against the far wall, away from doors and the narrow, ceiling-level windows. Her back rested against solid underground stone. It was the way she liked it. The way it had to be. She’d seen too many friends stabbed in the back – metaphorically, as well as physically – to squander her liver without a fight. Even under the effects of the leaf.
The honey-leaf.
A flower of beauty, honesty, power, truth, pain and misery. Kiki laughed to herself. A small trickle of brown spit dribbled from the corner of her mouth.
You survived, she told herself.
You always survive.
He was close, said her sister in the mirror. He nearly had you. Nearly killed you. Nearly fucked you over; took your body and soul. Once, Kiki, you would have taken him in the blink of an eye.
What are you trying to say?
Smoke drifted, thick and cloying. Voices burbled, unreal a background chatter of noise and stench and casual sex.
I’m not trying to say anything. I am saying – you are growing old. Slow. Fat. Decadent. Pointless. Pointless, Kiki; you’ve changed, woman. You’ve changed from being a lethal awesome warrior, a killing machine, to being a slow fat slave. You rule the drug; the drug never rules you. That’s what you told me. Told me a million times over. And now look at you. Look at the state of you. You’re a fucking disgrace. Soon, you’ll be opening your legs just for a taste of the leaf. When the money’s gone. And the money always goes.
Kiki considered this.
“Go to hell,” she laughed, she giggled, and placed another leaf under her tongue. Then she put her hand over her mouth and gasped, eyes wide. “But then, how can you go to hell, Suza? You’re already there, right? You had your dead child and you took your own life. Now you rot in the torture pits and you’re pissed I’m not there with you; so you haunt me through the mirror. Go ahead, bitch. Do your best. Do your worst. I do not care. Life and death; who gives a fuck? What’s left for me? Nothing. Nothing at all. I am as you see me: an empty shell.”
People came and went. Time accelerated, then went slow. Infinitely slow.
Kiki lay, slumbering, twisting and turning in an uneasy half-life.
Lights flickered. Candles and firelight. And then, the dawn.
A shadow blocked out the light, and she covered her eyes.
If this was the King’s Guard – well.
She chuckled to herself.
She was totally wasted.
“Collect your weapons.”
“Who are you to tell… me… tell me, what to do?” Life, the world, infinity, all swam in and out of focus. She went as if to place another honey-leaf under her tongue, but a large hand knocked it from her grasp.
She tutted, annoyed, but did not have the energy to scrabble on the floor. It was gone and done.
Once, she would have killed the bastard for that.
A face loomed close, and if the drugs hadn’t been so strong she would have flinched in disbelief. She struggled backwards on the couch, seeking to be free, and suddenly cowering in on herself, folding in on herself; suddenly brittle, and weak, and breakable, like kiln-fired porcelain.
It’s the leaf, she told herself.
It’s the leaf.
But it wasn’t. And he slapped her and she screamed and struggled, but he picked her up and Kiki lay cradled in his powerful arms like a child, crying bitter, salted tears, as he carried her from the smoky den up the narrow stone steps and out into the rain.
She gazed up into his face.
“Father?” she said.
“No,” he said, words more gentle now. “But I’m close enough. Come on, Kiki. Let’s get you cleaned up.”
WINTER SHADOWS
It was the Guild of Spice Merchants’ Annual Dinner, and flurries of snow kicked down the street past the ancient Guild House. Six hundred years old, of ancient stone and black carved oak, the building was one of the o
ldest, and most architecturally admired, in the Vagandrak War Capital of Vagan.
The cobbled streets and lanes were dark, empty and decorated with light sprinklings of snow. Not so in the Guild House. Cheers went up and the five fat chimneys pumped smoke into a charcoal sky.
Inside, down corridors of thick, richly patterned carpets, past panels of oak and marble busts of Guild Masters dating back three centuries, drifted snippets of conversation and song, the aroma of a whole roasting pig and the clink of crystal containing Vagandrak’s finest port and brandy. The main speaker, one Lord Deltari, current Guild Master, huge and bulbous, red of cheek, bald of head, and wearing a black velvet coat adorned with glittering jewels normally only found on ladies of ill repute, was just winding down his annual speech with a tale of how he’d made his fortune by identifying a niche in the market for ground and dried exotic spices from deepest southern Zakora, and from thence importing one of the most current and popular hot spices after an argument with his brother over a dog. The tale had an ironic, slapstick ending that made Lord Deltari appear witty and smart, and his brother the village idiot. And Deltari ended up with the dog. A poodle, apparently, called Charles. Another cheer went up and, amidst clinking glasses and guffaws and a discrete applause, Deltari sat down to an animated table of sycophantic chatter and over-friendly back-slapping.
In the corner sat Great Dale, William de Pepper and Lord Rokroth, from the House of Rokroth, whose main trade was eel meat from the Rokroth Marshes, but who also traded in various spiced variations of dried eel, his buying power thus earning him a place in the Guild, and therefore attendance at the Guild Annual Dinner.
“… an idiot,” Great Dale was saying, and buttered himself a warm roll.
Rokroth nodded, rubbing his grey whiskers as a serving maid poured him a large measure of brandy. He swirled the amber liquid, watching the rich dance inside the many faceted crystal chamber. “The man’s a buffoon. And just because he’s President of the Guild, and Lord through marriage, I’ll have you note, as opposed to direct bloodline, we have to endure his terminal self-congratulatory speech; and I use the term ‘speech’ in its broadest possible sense. I don’t know about you, gentlemen, but personally I’d rather stick my own head up my own backside. Or even, and this ably illustrates my despair, up his backside!”