The Iron Wolves

by Andy Remic

  “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.

  The next hour passed in amiable companionship, even though Dalgoran’s heart wasn’t truly in it. As he had said, he missed Farsala with an aching heart, and it almost felt like a minor betrayal to drink and laugh and enjoy oneself when she was cold and alone in the family tomb. After several glasses of port, then moving on to port and brandy, Dalgoran felt his melancholy lift a little and he sat in a circle of old military comrades, Jagged included, and they smoked pipes and cigars, drank from rich goblets, and discussed old battles, tactics, but avoided the subject of King Yoon like the plague. Even though there were many old friends, Yoon was an uncomfortable topic. Trust was a funny thing when it came to a king sliding down the slippery slope into madness; and liable to come round and burn down your house with your family still in their beds – or so the growing rumours would have one believe.

  As they sat, in a moment of comfortable silence, a servant approached and leant close towards Jagged.

  “She’s here, General. She’s here!”

  “I thought she could not come because of snow?”

  “Me also. But she arrived five minutes ago in a simple black carriage drawn by two ponies.”

  “By all the gods!” boomed Jagged, and rocked himself to his feet, spilling wine down his finely embroidered waistcoat. “Brother in War! At last! The fun section of your birthday gift has arrived!”

  “The fun section?” Dalgoran eyed his friend with deep mistrust. “Gods man, not a lady of the night? I’m seventy years old, by the Holy Mother!”

  “Ha! Nothing of the sort, although I remember that Shamil dancer in Makkrappur who made your eyes stand out. In fact, that wasn’t the only thing that stood out! She made you drool like a babe lusting after a sugar stick. No, no, don’t panic, old goat. We clubbed together, got you a seer to tell you tall tales of your future. Apparently, she’s the best in the whole of Vagandrak! Predicted Falanek’s promotion, marriage and divorce – and got all three right!”

  “What do you think I need a bloody seer for?” snapped Dalgoran, words tinged with anger. “I know exactly what my future holds and I’d rather not be reminded of what could be just around the corner. You idiot, Jagged. You never did think things through. That’s why your battle strategy was always as sloppy as a Zagandrian’s knife-opened bowels. What were you thinking?”

  “Shh, she’s here!”

  “I don’t care. I’m not talking to her.”

  “Please, Dalgoran. For me! Come on, it’ll be the highlight of the night, I promise.”

  Grumbling, Dalgoran turned to the doors. Through them drifted a woman wearing a black gauze veil and a long dress that reached the floor making her appear ghostly and ephemeral. She wore black gloves and no flesh could be seen. She moved slowly, with grace, and a hush fell on the gathering.

  “I am seeking General Dalgoran,” came a soft voice: beautiful, and slightly sibilant on the s.

  “I am here.” He stood, holding his goblet.

  She approached. “I am Allorna, a seer from Vagandrak.”

  “Do you bring good news, or bad? I’ve had my fill of bad news for a lifetime.”

  “I have read the runes and you intrigue me greatly, Dalgoran. I must dance for you. I must commune with the spirits. Then we shall explore the webs of your future intricacies together.”

  “I’m not so sure…” muttered Dalgoran, uneasily.

  Jagged nudged him hard. “See! A sexy dance…”
>
  “Be silent!” hissed Allorna, head snapping to Jagged. “Or we will talk about the inevitability or your fast approaching death. Would you like to know when you die, little man? Would you like to know when the worms begin to feed?”

  Staring through that fine gauze, Jagged suddenly realised there were two dark pools where the woman’s eyes should have been. She was blind, the sockets empty. He gave a long, slow shiver.

  “No, no,” he said through gritted teeth.

  Allorna returned her attention to Dalgoran and, without further words, started to sway and gyrate. A chill wind blew through the hall and several candles extinguished. Fires flickered and roared in the stone hearths. Not one person in that room did not have their eyes fixed on the seer.

  Dalgoran felt his mouth suddenly dry, his knees trembling. He hadn’t asked for this. He didn’t bloody want this! Why had General Jagged done this to him? The bloody old fool. So much for fifty years of friendship! So much for really understanding another human being!

  Dalgoran lifted his hand, and was just about to call a halt to the sensuous, gyrating dance when the seer said, “Hush, she walks amongst us.” More candles extinguished, plumes of smoke swirling towards the high ceiling in silver spirals. The fires in their hearths burned low. A scent of lavender seemed to fill the air, and suddenly the seer went slack, slumping back, as if unconscious but held up at an odd angle by invisible wires.

  Dalgoran dropped his hand as if it were a striking serpent. His eyes narrowed and his right hand came to rest on his scabbarded sword.

  “What devilry is this?” he whispered.

  “Not devilry,” croaked Jagged, “she’s for real! I thought it would be a cheap laugh about finding a fresh young woman, getting drunk and winning lots of money at cards. Not this.”

  Dalgoran stared hard at Jagged, but could not find the words to express his annoyance at the idiocy.

  Still Allorna hung, suspended… And began to chant, her voice very, very old, cracked, leaden, beating out in a tribal rhythm; like a heartbeat from the depths of some ancient tombworld…

  Mud born,

  Blood rage,

  Summoned We,

  World change.

  Love dies,

  Hatred rise,

  Fires burn,

  Flesh prize.

  Kings die,

  Queens cry,

  Five stand,

  On mountain sky.

  One hope,

  Evil purge,

  Impure love,

  Wolves unite.

  Dalgoran was frowning at the words, and he gave a long, deep shudder. What did it mean? These words weren’t, as Jagged had at first expected, about the simplicities and tribulations of a soldier’s life. No, they were… something else. Mud born? A summoning? The death of a king?

  There came a sound from outside, and heads turned; it was like the galloping of a horse but with an ungainly rhythm. Loud, heavy, ponderous, uneven, crunching the stones of the drive. The heads of more guests turned towards the wide doors which opened out onto the drive and manicured lawns. Heavy curtains now obscured the gardens. They trembled gently with the irregular beat.

  “What…” began General Jagged, hand on sword hilt, as something huge and blurred crashed through the doors, tangled in several curtains, and started viciously snarling, snapping, growling. They got a glimpse of dark grey fur, in ragged tufts, streaked with black. Jaws like those of a huge, disjointed dog were snarling and growling and snapping – and suddenly lashed out, grabbing a slender woman, stood with a look of horror on her face, crystal wine glass held limp as the fangs grabbed her round the waist and lifted her into the air, crunching through ribs and spine as adrenaline and survival instinct suddenly kicked in and she began to scream and thrash and beat at the heavily furred head.

  “Jagged! To me!” bellowed Dalgoran, drawing his short sword and advancing.

  The beast, struggling for a moment in the tangle of heavy drapes, staggered forward and then reared up on hind legs, the broken, limp and lifeless woman still in its jaws. It was well over six feet tall, and nearer to seven on hind legs, massively muscled, with huge cords around shoulders and spine. It was covered in thick sprouting tufts of grey fur, but its legs seemed disjointed, in slightly different places to where they should be, thus making the creature skew to one side.

  “What in Hell’s teeth is that?” breathed Jagged, face torn with shock.

  “I don’t know, but we need to put it out of its misery.” Dalgoran took a step forward, but the huge creature shook the dead woman, like a dog with a bone, and tossed her across the hall. Snarling, the beast cleared the curtains and whirled on Jagged and Dalgoran, standing with swords raised.

  The creature’s maw opened wide, showing sickly yellow fangs, and Dalgoran couldn’t help think how much like a wolf the beast was, and yet so different; twisted, with an elongated and bent muzzle and eyes of different colours: one yellow, one blue.

  “Where… is… the seer?” growled the beast in a guttural dialect that made Dalgoran and Jagged take a step back.

  A guard ran at the creature, which twisted suddenly, muzzle batting away the point of the sword and fangs closing over his entire head, which was wrenched free with a vicious twist trailing tendons and a short wriggling segment of spinal column.

  More guards ran forward, but the wolf-like creature leapt, clearing them and scattering heavy furniture as if it were chopped kindling. Its head swayed and eyes fastened on the seer who was on her knees, head thrown forward but face raised, as if her own blind orbs could see the beast that had come for her…

  “No!” bellowed Dalgoran. He sprinted forward, Jagged close behind. They positioned themselves between the creature and the veiled seer as the beast charged. They stepped apart with the precision and training of five decades, both slamming swords into the beast’s flesh, but it did not break stride, even as razor steel slid under skin and muscle, broke through bone… but simply knocked both men violently from their feet, the creature stopping directly before the seer, great fetid muzzle dropping until it was inches from her face. It studied her, as one would a magnificent painting.

  A guard who had fetched a spear charged, and the point slid between the creature’s ribs, snapping it from its reverie. Its head whirled about and one heavy paw full of sharp black claws lashed out, slapping the man to the ground as if he were a child’s doll. Claws extended, like a cat’s, and punctured his screaming head like a ripe melon.

  The wolf-beast turned back to the seer, who had not moved. Her lips were writhing, incanting, and slowly she raised her right hand until it was level with her breast. Now Dalgoran and Jagged had gained their feet, and their swords, and more old soldiers had run to them with blades drawn, along with yet more guards who had brought spears. They surrounded the beast in a semi-circle; a ring of jagged iron.

  “What do you want?” whispered the seer.

  “You know… what I… need.”

  The seer bowed her head, but her lips were still writhing and smoke began to pour from her mouth. The wolf-beast chuckled, lowered its maw and bit off her head, crunching through skull and teeth, brains slopping between its fangs and drooling like runny eggs from twisted mandibles. Blood arced in a fountain from the neck stump, drenching the beast and darkening its fur. A headless corpse flopped to the floor.

  The soldiers charged forward with spear and sword, and the creature turned and spat a shower of brain and bone shards at them, many of whom screamed, gasped, suddenly faltered with the absolute shock. Dalgoran and Jagged ploughed on, teeth gritted, swords smashing down to hack at the creature again and again. Spears plunged into it and it howled, then, a high real wolf howl, and its claws started swiping left and right, disembowelling one man who slipped on his own entrails as he sobbed, and removing another guard’s face so that he clutched helplessly, down on his knees in puddles of blood and streamers of flesh and his severed nose, clawing at a mask of shredded muscle and skin and open bone sockets where the remains of his puncture
d eyes lingered like pale worms.

  More spears plunged into the wolf-beast and it rose, whirling about, five shafts wrenched from the hands of guards and smacking into others, knocking them from their feet. The beast staggered towards the window and the cold winter chill, riddled with open wounds, and Dalgoran grabbed a spear from a speechless guard, his face hard and iron and grim, and strode forward to where the creature, now mewling and clawing at the ground, attempted to crawl to freedom.

  “Why did you kill the seer?” he snarled.

  Slowly, the creature rolled onto its back, a black tongue lolling between huge jaws, and its different coloured eyes fixed on Dalgoran and it laughed, a deep-throated chuckle that was half rumble, half human.

  Dalgoran placed the spear point at the creature’s throat.

  “Why?”

  “You… next… Dalgoran,” it said, before snarling and trying to lurch up and forward towards the old general. Dalgoran drove the spear into the creature’s throat, and Jagged was there beside him, short sword in both hands, which he lifted, then drove down through one of the eye sockets and into the brain.