by Andy Remic
“Ridiculous!” snapped Hunta. “We said no such thing! We told you not to disturb our husband, the King, for important reports had come in from his scouts. And you blatantly ignored our instruction!”
“You are giving me instructions now, are you?” Shanaz whirled, eyes blazing vicious fire. “Just because you have been married for longer, and yes, are suitably older, does not give you superiority over me!” She padded towards Zorkai, bare feet slapping the terracotta tiles, and grasped his arm, looking up with those wide, pleading eyes which had so captured his heart at the annual Feast of Warriors. “Tell them, Zorky; your other wives are being mean to me! They always are, when you’re not here.”
“Ha!” snapped Hunta. “Zorkai, you simply would not believe what we have to put up with in your absence. You have married a little bitch, that’s for sure! She wanders around in her bare feet, crowing like a cockerel that she has a better time between the bedsheets with you. She says we are sexually inferior to her and she knows how to play you like a zanda trell.”
“Ladies!” snapped Zorkai. But Hunta was on a roll.
“She’s also bragged about how, if you were to choose one queen, you would choose her over us, because she controls you like a puppeteer with a little king puppet. She says she pulls your strings.”
“Horse shit!” yelled Shanaz, whirling on Hunta. “How dare you try and sabotage the special love I have with my king! Just because you feel you have grown old and wrinkled before your time, your tits sagging to your waist and your flower becoming dry and barren…”
“Why, you little sparkly bitch,” said Hunta, eyes narrowed. “I’ll…”
“Stop them, Zorkai, stop them both!” pleaded Marella, and the King threw his hands in the air. “They both love you for your money; I am, truly, the only one who loves you for yourself.”
Hunta and Shanaz were staring at Marella.
“Oh, you back-stabbing whore,” snarled Hunta.
“LADIES!” thundered Zorkai, both fists clenched, face suddenly purple. “You will ALL stop your bickering, or I will have you ALL flogged! I am sick to the back teeth of this constant yapping! Now get out of my sight, I have an important issue to deal with; you are not helping the situation!”
The three women, heads held high, haughtily withdrew from the King’s Chamber. The doors swung shut, snugly clicking into the arched doorframe. The minute he heard that click, there followed urgent hushed voices beyond and Zorkai glanced, just for a moment, towards his short sword.
His mother had warned him. “Only an idiot marries three,” she had said, unblinking eyes fixed on him. “You’ll be taken in by their young, supple limbs, their luscious hair, their pouting lips, their shining eyes, their writhing hips. But ultimately, my son, they’ll bring you more pain than pleasure. I promise you. I know these things.”
He had ignored her. He was the king after all. But oh, how she had been right!
“Sire! I have urgent news!”
It was Jendakka, one of Zorkai’s most feared generals. Vicious, merciless, a hard man without compassion for anything or anyone. Zorkai shook his head, clearing his thoughts. Gods, he hadn’t even heard the man enter!
“What is it, Jen?”
“Further sightings of this tall, white woman. It is said she rides a lion beast and is followed by monsters. And she is heading straight towards Zak-Tan. Either this is really happening, or the whole country has been drinking ether spirit.”
“She’s heading across the South Salt Plains, then?”
“According to scouts.”
“Send message to the barracks. Saddle three thousand mounts. Let’s see what this woman wants.”
They rode hard in a wedge formation with King Zorkai and General Jendakka the point of the wedge. Behind, in perfect symmetry, rode three thousand highly trained warriors on horses bred for war. Hooves drummed the salt plains sending up clouds of salt. Each mount had damp cloths over muzzles to protect them from the dust, and warriors had heads and faces wrapped with finely woven keffiyeh. Zorkai pushed them hard for an hour, then they dismounted and walked their mounts for twenty minutes, resting them. Mounting once more, they continued south following directions given by Jendakka’s scouts.
When they saw the enemy force, it was much larger than they’d anticipated and Zorkai drew rein, his huge stallion rearing and dropping to stamp the salt plain. His eyes met Jendakka’s. “How many?”
“At least five hundred. At least.”
“That’s what I was thinking. Suggestions?”
“They are intruders in our lands, Sire. I suggest total annihilation.”
Zorkai nodded. “Battle formation!” he bellowed. “Long lances, we’ll hit them from the front, split and wheel in the Ram’s Horn; come in from both sides to mop up any survivors.” Men pulled on battle helms and unhitched lances. “Any questions?” shouted the king. “Then ride hard and true, my boys! For Zakora!”
“FOR ZAKORA!” they thundered, and kicked their horses into a matched canter, building swiftly up to a gallop. They stampeded across the salt plains, hooves drumming, great clouds rising behind them, and as they came close so visors were lowered on helms and lances levelled in readiness for impact…
Screams echoed across the salt plains, high pitched and piercing and King Zorkai felt more than saw or heard the chaos behind him, and cast a glance back. What met his gaze was, truly, an impossibility, for his entire battalion were sat astride rearing, thrashing mounts, stampeding around on rear hooves, pawing the air, huge maws open showing lolling thrashing tongues and gleaming long teeth as lips quivered and the men clung on grimly. It felt, to Zorkai, that the entire world had gone suddenly mad. And then the horses started to break apart, bones crunching, flesh running, blood splattering, and he cantered to a stop, lance and sword forgotten, mouth hung open as three thousand men and mounts merged together, folding in on each other, and then they hit the salt plains in a thrashing screaming mass and great salt clouds rose up to engulf the savage horrific spectacle and Zorkai cantered a few steps forward, then halted again, lance suddenly slippery in his grip. He turned to Jendakka, to see if he was crazy, to see if Jendakka’s eyes mirrored his own. Jendakka threw off his helm, was panting heavily, and that look told Zorkai everything he needed to know. He was not a victim of dark seed, liquor or some horrible imagined nightmare. This was real. This was happening…
“We have to help them,” shouted Zorkai over the sounds of thrashing, squealing, thumping and squelching. “What, in the name of the Sacred Fire Orchids, is happening?” But Jendakka’s mount suddenly reared, and Zorkai watched him merge with his horse, the beast’s back opening like a huge wound and sucking the man inside, plates of armour melding with the horse’s back and flanks; it hit the ground on its side, Jendakka’s boots kicking and then becoming slowly absorbed and sucked into the expanding, bulging mass as horse and man became one: one creature, one monster.
Zorkai leapt from his own mount, eyeing it suspiciously, and with a sudden horror remembered the large enemy force they’d been about to engage. He swallowed, mouth desert dry, and to a symphony of merging flesh and metal and thumping slaughter, turned and looked upon the enemy.
She walked towards him in utmost serenity.
She was beautiful beyond belief.
And deadly. Zorkai sensed her intrinsic killer streak, and panic welled in his breast like a fast blossoming cancer, opening dark petals to swallow his heart and soul. Beside her padded a massive beast, a twisted, deformed lion with… Zorkai swallowed. Its features were almost human. Almost. But it was neither one thing nor the other, and great yellow fangs poked unevenly from a broken lion’s maw. Huge tawny eyes settled on him and he held that gaze for a moment, recognising human emotion, intelligence, mixed in a golden pot of unabridged violence and a need to kill and feed.
Zorkai met the woman’s gaze.
“I am Orlana,” she said, voice simple, quiet, unchallenging.
“I am King Zorkai. What have you done to my… men?”
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“It is a thing of the old magick. I cannot explain in your language, for it is more of an essence, of land and rock and sky. Let us say I can channel such power; and I can shift men and beasts together, splice them into one beast which will serve me unfalteringly until death. Do you understand?”
“I understand,” said King Zorkai. “And yet, you have not done this to me?”
“No. I need you.”
“You need me?” Zorkai was frowning. He glanced over his shoulder, at where the splicing of Jendakka and his mount was complete. A short, squat, powerful horse beast stared back with evil, dark eyes. Black fangs nestled like razors in a too-big equine maw. From one set of claws Zorkai could see a bulging lance point, and he shuddered. Man, and horse, and metal. All made one. He turned back to Orlana. With voice little more than a croak, he asked, “What do you need of me?”
She stepped forward and placed a hand on his chest. He was breathing fast. He still held his sword, but some intuition told him she could kill him faster than he could raise the blade. After all, she’d just disabled three thousand hardened warriors. And swelled her own ranks in the process.
She leant close. “None can stand against me,” she whispered in his ear, words tickling, and suddenly, curiously, he felt aroused. This woman, this witch, this dark shaman; she excited him in ways he had never dreamed.
“Yes,” he said. “I can see that.”
“You can either join me, and I will become your Queen. Or you can… serve me, as your warriors here now serve me.”
Zorkai turned once more. The salt dust was settling. He wished it wasn’t.
Turning back, he suddenly dropped to one knee and took Orlana’s long, slender fingers. He kissed the marble white skin of her hand.
“Welcome home, Queen Orlana.”
“You may stand, my King.”
Zorkai stood and eyed the beasts arraigned behind this tall, beautiful woman. He swallowed, then looked deep into her eyes. “What happens next?”
“Take me to our palace at Zak-Tan. We have plans to formulate.”
Orlana strode through the Main Hall of the Palace at Zak-Tan, head held high, eyes surveying the finery of the surroundings: carved marble, vibrant paintings, busts of stone, rich tapestries imported from the far east, wooden statues from the deep south. She swept up the steps towards Zorkai’s chambers, the king trailing ten footsteps behind, his mind still in a whirl from the madness he had witnessed. On the streets of the city, the returning forces had not been met with the same enthusiasm as when they had left. Men and women and children, running in blind panic, amidst screams and shouts and general chaos. Now, the streets were deserted, and patrolled by the horse beasts of Orlana. And whilst they were not exactly under orders to attack, Zorkai had quickly got the general impression his people weren’t willing to put it to the test.
“I like,” Orlana said, pointing to a huge tapestry at the top of the sweeping stairway. It depicted a huge battle between mud-orcs crawling like worms from the Mud-Pits, and defenders on the walls of Desekra Fortress at the Pass of Splintered Bones. Zorkai had always found the work depressing, but it had been a favourite of his late father and so he’d kept it to remind him of the stern old man.
“I always found it… brooding, dark, violent.”
“Those were dark, violent times.”
“You were there?”
Orlana met his gaze and gave a small nod. “Let us say I knew Morkagoth. He was a man possessed.” She smiled.
“He was killed by the Iron Wolves, right?”
“Not exactly killed,” said Orlana. “More banished. He carried the blood of the Equiem. Now, there is a race that’s hard to destroy.”
Zorkai glanced down the stairs, to where Tuboda had set up guard by the massive entrance doors to the Main Hall. The great lion-creature had settled down on its twisted haunches, leaning slightly to one side, and the tawny eyes met the king’s. He shivered. That look was far too intelligent for his liking.
“Zorkai! You’re back! Why didn’t they ring the bells?” Shanaz ran down the steps, hair bouncing, silks flowing, bare feet slapping, a wide smile on her pretty face: her gleaming red gloss lips, and evocative, dark ochre eyes. Then she saw Orlana and stopped dead. “Who is that?”
“This is Orlana.”
“Your new queen,” said Orlana, voice soft, eyes glittering.
“What?” screeched Shanaz. “Hunta! Marella! Come quickly! Come NOW!”
She needn’t have shouted, for both women were already on their way, unwilling for Shanaz to spend too much time alone with their shared husband. The two other wives paused at the top of the steps, eyes widening at this new complication, then slowly descended to the mid-point landing and the huge tapestry depicting the War of Zakora.
“This woman! She says she is the new queen!” babbled Shanaz, near hysterical, head turning from left to right, hair flying, eyes suddenly wild. “Have you ever heard such rubbish? Zorkai! How could you? How could you bring another woman here? We three are not enough for you? After all those wild nights I spent in your bed making you moan, my nails clawing your back, my performance better than these other two bitches!”
Orlana looked at Zorkai, then back to Shanaz. “Is this woman ever quiet?”
“Don’t you dare do that!” screamed Shanaz, and Zorkai took a step back, paling. “Don’t talk about me like I’m not in the room. Oh no! So tell me, bitch, go on, how long have you been seeing our husband? How long have you been fucking my king?” She strutted towards Orlana, and only then did the small, jewelled blade become visible in her hand. It glittered with gold and precious jewels, but the blade was razor sharp, the edge thinner than paper and honed religiously by a fanatic.
Hunta and Marella were silent, but they leaned forward eagerly, eyes shining, thrilled at this new turn of events. It seemed like a situation which could only benefit them; Shanaz was building herself up into a frenzy, and whether she killed this new woman or not, she was not painting herself in a modest light. Zorkai did not like such displays amongst his wives. Whatever the outcome, Hunta and Marella were going to benefit. Especially if Shanaz killed his new woman…
“It’s a disgrace!” shouted Hunta.
“Go on, Shanaz, show her we won’t be dishonoured like this!”
Zorkai threw them an evil glare, and placed his hand on his sword hilt. “Shanaz, wife, calm yourself!” But there was no soothing Shanaz. Her temper was up. Her face was flushed red with fury. Her eyes glittered brighter than her dagger blade.
Orlana still made no move as this spitting, snarling ball of dark energy approached. She wore a narrow smile on her face, but her hands were by her sides, her soft flesh apparently unprotected.
“Bitch queen!” spat Shanaz in Orlana’s face, having to stand on tip-toe to reach her. She was close now. Close enough to plunge in the blade. But she paused… her flapping tongue had not yet finished.
“You think you can come here and open your legs and take my man, well I’m here to tell you something; he belongs to us, we worked hard to get him, I worked hard to get him. And I’m not letting some skin and bone arrogant whore suck and slime her way into his bed and take the wealth we – I – have worked so hard to acquire! Have you any last words before I gut you like a rotten fish?”
Orlana considered this. Her small pale tongue moistened her pale, almost translucent, lips. The smile had still not left her face. Quietly, she said, “Do you always mewl like a fist-fucked kitten?” before back-handing her down the stairs, a movement so swift none saw Orlana even lift her hand.
Shanaz spun, over and over, limbs and torso slapping hard against the marble edges of the steps, her jewelled razor dagger clattering away ahead of her. She hit the bottom hard and lay still, and broken, a skin bag of crushed bones.
Slowly, she groaned, and pushed herself up a little, but slumped back down to the white marble floor. The small pool of blood which leaked from her mouth was dark crimson, a stunning contrast against skin and white marble.
Now, Orlana lifted her gaze to Hunta and Marella. The two women had turned pale.
“Come to me, little chickens,” said Orlana, and stretched out her hand, and half closed her eyes.
“Zorkai, no, don’t let her hurt us! We’re your wives! Please!”
Zorkai clamped shut his mouth and lowered his eyes, as against their will, both Hunta and Marella began the long, long walk down the marble steps towards the woman with pale skin and soft, glowing eyes…
NARNOK
The corridor was plush and expensive, in a cheap and nasty way. The wallpaper was maroon with golden swirls, but in poor condition, damaged on doorway corners and scuffed near skirting boards. The red carpet, whilst once thick and rich and obviously expensive, now had various tattered patches and various unrecognisable stains. There were quality fake busts made from cheap plaster, and an over-abundance of gilt on archways and decorative vases which, rather than add to the allure of the décor, gave the opposite effect. It was the sort of corridor decorated and dressed by somebody who had never seen wealth before; which was ironic, because Narnok was one of the wealthiest men in the city.
None of this mattered as the panicked screams bounced down the long passage, from which ten doors led to ten independent “suites” housing a variety of young ladies with differing hair colours, styles, breast sizes and tastes in the extreme. The Pleasure Parlour catered for most.
Narnok sprinted down the red carpet, boots thudding to stop by Room 9. Without ceremony, the large man kicked open the door to see Luleyla cowering beneath the gathered black sheets, backed up against the headboard of the overlarge bed, her face framed in horror and bobbed red curls. The thin, hairy man, naked but for his socks, held a short serrated knife and he spun around, eyes locking to Narnok’s brutal scarred face. Narnok took a threatening step forward.