by Andy Remic
Wearily, Trista climbed off the now sodden, blood-soaked bed. It was a charnel pit. A butcher’s block. She gave a great sigh and a weight greater than the world settled across her shoulders like ash from a volcanic eruption. She moved to the door.
The first man entered at a run, and Trista’s blade punched into his belly, exploding him with an “oof” and sending him rolling into the bedchamber. She moved out into the corridor, where she could hear a commotion down the stairs. She padded forward, eyes fixed, face showing no emotion. Two men appeared at the top of the stairs, half-dressed and carrying swords. Trista stepped between them and her knife slashed left, then right, seeming to almost float past them. But its razor edge opened them like gutted fish and she was on the stairs, descending, a pool of blood following her from step to step to step.
A scream echoed behind her, high and shrill.
Followed by, “Call the City Watch! There’s been murder, bloody murder!” But by then, Trista was out of the building, into the darkness, treading through fresh-fallen snow in her glossy pink shoes. She was out and gone, swallowed by the night, vanishing into the peaceful white snow flurries that conspired to mask her terrible crime.
Trista sat on the edge of the fountain, trailing her hand in the water where she’d cracked the ice. Her ballgown was a crumpled heap beside her, and she wore slim-fitting dark clothes and thigh-length black boots. The fountain tinkled, powered by some underground spring which forced pressurised water up a central spout and out over varying diameters of carved white stone. The surface of each platter had turned to ice, but water still moved beneath. The bottom pool, however, was pink after Trista washed the blood from her hands, and droplets of crimson peppered the front section, staining the ice.
Trista lifted her face to the falling snow, and tears rolled down her cheeks.
She did not act like she’d heard the figure approach; if she had, she did not acknowledge.
“Trista.”
“Hello, Kiki.”
Kiki moved forward and seated herself on the edge of the fountain. “We saw what you did. We were too late to stop you.”
“I know.”
“The City Watch are looking for you. They will hang you.”
“I know this, also.”
“And you’ll let them?”
Trista gave a small, tinkling laugh, and avoided an answer. “What are you doing here, Keek? You’re a long way from home and the honey-leaf.”
Kiki gave a frown, and her eyes hardened into ice.
“Dalgoran is reforming the Iron Wolves. The mud-orcs are back. Along with terrible, twisted creatures made from horses and men. I know you probably have other things on your mind, right now, but I’d suggest staying here in Timanta isn’t your safest option.”
“They’ll never find me. Never catch me.”
She turned, and with sudden ferocity stared into Kiki’s eyes. “Do you understand? Why I did it? Can you read my motives?”
Kiki bit her lip. Then gave a little shake of her head.
“They deserved the honesty death brings. They loved each other too much; and they deserved to love one another forever, not see it destroyed, not see it all fucked up. Narnok would understand. Ask him, later.”
“Because of his wife?”
“Yes. And his face.”
“You’ve met him? Since he received his… scars?”
“Several times our paths have crossed,” said Trista, sadly, looking down at the ground. Then: “I loved him, you know. Loved him more than anything, more than life itself, more than the stars and the universe, more than the glow of a new-born’s face, more than a single perfect snowflake.”
She pushed the long, slim, black dagger into her boot. It had been cleaned since it carried out its murderous work.
“But they leave you. They always leave you in the end. The spark goes. The fire dies. People get fat and bald and old and ugly. Men run away with other women, women run away with other men; people move on, move out, move up. And love never survives, Kiki, can you not see that?” She looked up then. “Love only exists for the smallest fraction of time; the tiniest of connections. Like a splinter in the universe.”
“Yes. I can see that,” said Kiki, gently.
She reached out, slowly, as one approaching a passive tiger. She placed her hand on Trista’s arm.
“And that’s why you can capture it. Freeze it. Distil it. Yes, there is pain; there is always pain. But what is a little pain and blood against an unending backdrop of eternal love? In death, death after ultimate, mind-blowing, all-consuming love, you can capture that moment. Like diamonds in ice. You can see that, can’t you, Kiki?”
“Come on. Dalgoran is here. The others are here. We need to move.”
Trista glanced about, possibly concerned, or not, that somebody – a guard – might spot them. Dawn was breaking, the sky growing light beyond the light fall of snow. It wouldn’t be long before they came looking for the killer in the pink gown. “Why should I come with you?” she said, suddenly, head snapping up.
“Because,” said Kiki gently, “I love you. I have always loved you. I will always love you.”
Trista stared into Kiki’s eyes, and they remained like that for two, maybe three minutes. Trista smiled, then. A sudden movement. “If you’d been lying, I would have killed you.”
“I know.”
“I love you too, Kiki. And the others. But you’re special.”
“Thank you. Come on.”
They stood. Trista prodded the ballgown with the toe of her boot. “I won’t do it again. I promise. I won’t do it again.”
“Hush now. Come with me.”
And holding Trista around the shoulders, Kiki gently walked her away from the fountain of blood and ice.
ZUNDER
The Iron Wolves rode under a bloated yellow moon, huddled in cloaks, heads bent against a savage, ice-filled wind which howled across the bleak, volcanic landscape surrounding the mighty dormant volcano, Zunder. They had said little to one another when Kiki returned with Zastarte and Trista; there were no warm greetings, no slaps on the back, no hearty guffaws and reminiscing of days gone past. Just a gathering of hardened middle-aged men and women, dressed in blacks and greys, wrapped in oiled leather cloaks, their eyes moving across one another with suspicion and guilt and a catalogue of old memories; bad memories.
“It’s been a long time,” said Dek, as Zastarte rolled his neck and stared disapprovingly at the cloak proffered by Kiki.
“Not long enough,” smiled the dandy, and the good humour fell from Dek’s face like a shadow under sunlight.
There had been a few mumbled greetings, and Dalgoran had fought well to disguise his massive disappointment at this, the ultimate, final reunion of his elite squad – the Iron Wolves – in all their decadence.
And now, they rode across a bleak and savage landscape, displaying the psychopathic wrath of Nature.
In silence.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this, he thought, and shook his head.
So many years, so much pain; so many crimes not accounted for.
The bitterness was ripe in Dalgoran’s mouth like he sucked a bad fruit.
The sadness hung heavy, in his soul.
I came looking for old heroes, he realised, pulling his cloak a little tighter. I came looking for my heroes. And instead, I found heroes crippled by their deeds, haunted by their past, twisted and broken by the noose of honour which once hung around their necks and had now constricted, choking their honesty; choking their honour.
He looked up at the yellow moon. It looked sick and pale.
What have I done? he asked himself.
What, in the name of the Furnace, have I done?
Within minutes they noticed signs of pursuit, and the Iron Wolves kicked their mounts into a gallop, riding hard away from Timanta with a group of City Guards on their heels, eight in number, wearing half-armour and pushing their mounts like men possessed. After a couple of miles of breakneck folly, as the rou
gh trails through black igneous rock and dust grew narrower and they approached a steep valley of angular volcanic walls, Dalgoran gestured to Narnok, Dek and Zastarte, who nodded and drew up their mounts abruptly. The General continued with Kiki, Ragorek and Trista, seeking shelter, for huge storm clouds threatened the horizon beyond the towering, threatening bulk of Zunder.
Dek drew his sword and rolled his shoulders, as Narnok hefted his axe and Zastarte weighed his rapier. Zastarte was smiling, his long curls whipped by the wind, and he grinned at the two big men. “Hey! Just like old times!”
“Fuck old times,” rumbled Narnok.
“But why such a sour face? Sorry. Sorry!”
“I don’t appreciate your nasty humour,” growled Narnok, throwing Zastarte a glance with his good eye. “I’ve cut off men’s heads for less. Used their hollowed out skulls as plant pots.”
“Narnok, my friend, we’re on the same side!” he wailed with a theatrical toss of his hand, and as the guards approached at a gallop, their numbers forced into three abreast as the valley walls narrowed the trail, so the three Iron Wolves dug heels to flanks, and charged…
Dalgoran found a narrow channel which wormed between high walls of towering igneous rock. Zunder was there, an ever-present shadow blocking out the fading daylight, and the ground was bare, lifeless, angular and sharp, and devoid of any living thing. They followed the narrow trail to a dead end, and the rocky walls were possible to climb in an emergency, although each protrusion looked brittle and dangerous. Ragorek built a small fire as Kiki and Trista unrolled a tarpaulin and draped it over wooden poles wedged into the rocks to give a makeshift shelter.
Trista got a fire going and Kiki made a chicken soup from stock and vegetables. Trista was sullen and silent, lost in memories, lost in dark thoughts. Kiki felt no need to breach the mood, for she was suffering with her own problems. Suza had crawled back into her mind like a toad onto a dead black lily, taunting her, mocking, her tinkling laughter an ever-present soundtrack pushing Kiki to the borders of sanity. And on top of this, she had begun to suffer chest pains. Mild at first, and she’d put it down to withdrawal from the honey-leaf she still craved, combined with a renewed necessity for battle. In truth, the pain terrified Kiki. It was directly over the scar where the surgeons had cut into her chest, missing her heart by a finger’s breadth. It did not bode well for her future, and her mood was dark.
Dek, Narnok and Zastarte returned as the sun was sinking behind the dormant volcano, Zunder. They brought with them extra mounts, weapons, armour and supplies from the guards’ saddlebags, which they had looted with care. Some soldiers had been known to booby-trap their kit in the hope it would cause damage if in the wrong hands.
And now, as darkness fell, all sat around the fire, eating soup and watching one another. There was an uneasy atmosphere, as if seven starving lions had all been put in the same cage with one chunk of meat.
Dalgoran coughed, finally, and stood, putting hands on hips. He was illuminated by the flickering flames as a harsh wind howled around the outside of their little tunnel carved through the volcanic landscape. In the firelight, Dalgoran looked old, older than his seventy years, a worn out man: a shell. A man who had gone beyond his natural longevity and was simply waiting to die. He was pale, and heavily lined, with dark hollows under his eyes and a weariness to his face and stance. He glanced from one wolf to the next to the next, and with a sinking feeling inside, Kiki realised how disappointed he was in them all.
They had let him down.
They had killed his dream.
Fucking murdered it.
“You were my heroes, once,” he said quietly, face softening into memories. “We stood together on the walls of Drakerath Fortress and we shook our fists; not just at the enemy, with its legions of mud-orcs; not just at Morkagoth, that evil bastard who wanted to take our souls; but at the world! We were proud and defiant, and believed we could never be beaten, no matter how large and fierce the enemy. We believed we could change things. We believed in truth and honour.”
He stared at them all.
“When the seer gave me the prophecy, and I knew in my heart the mud-orcs were coming, I believed, I truly believed that reforming the Iron Wolves was what was necessary; in my arrogance, I thought I was the only man who had a solution. Maybe I was wrong. Jagged has petitioned King Yoon. Maybe we will arrive at Drakerath and this whole pointless reunion will have been for nothing. Maybe Yoon has reformed the army, and even now forty thousand Vagandrak warriors line the walls. If that doesn’t repel the mud-orcs, I don’t know what will.” He smiled ruefully.
“If you believe that, then why continue with all this horse shit, old man?” rumbled Narnok.
Dalgoran gave a half shrug. “I can feel your disbelief. All of you. Those who want to be here are pandering to an old fool and his unfathomable, erratic conclusions based on – what? I have no evidence. Just half-connected clues which may well lead to a different outcome. I thought I had everything so clear in my mind. Now, it is filled with confusion. Some of you are here for money, or to run away from gods only know what horrific crimes. I look at you, now, here, like this; and I feel like I have created a monster. It is a very sad day for me.”
He sat down.
Kiki stared around at the faces flickering in the fire. Each was unreadable; hard, and hard to be broken. She frowned then, and licked her lips, and was about to speak when Dek raised a hand and coughed and rolled his neck with a crackling of released tension.
“You are wrong, General,” he said in a strong, proud voice, looking around at the other Iron Wolves.
“Aye? How’s that?”
“Maybe you have no hard evidence concerning the mud-orcs’ return. Maybe. But you have the heart of your country, and the heart and well-being of your people at the forefront of your mind. Most people are selfish by their very nature, General. By all the gods I’ve seen it, and done it. All of us here are normal men and women, and yes, we were great fighters in our day and we stood on the walls of Drakerath and defied the enemy. But that does not make us inherently good people; it never did. You, like everyone else, fell in love with the legend until you couldn’t see the reality. We haven’t changed, Dalgoran. But by the same breath, we have changed. We all here respect you more than any other, for you are our role model; you are our brother; and you are our father. I know I speak for everybody, in saying that we will follow you, and we will not let you down.”
“Well, I’m here for the cash,” said Zastarte.
“And to save your worthless stinking scrawny fucking neck,” rumbled Narnok.
“Stop!” commanded Kiki, voice strong, eyes hard. “Dek is right. Nobody is forcing any of us to be here. We follow Dalgoran out of respect and honour and loyalty, no matter what our twisted mouths spit out.” She turned on Zastarte. “You are one twisted fucker, Prince. I know this. I know that deep down inside that damaged heart, you are not a good person at all. Well then. You say you’re here for the money? I’m telling you now, there is none. So, if you wish to walk away, now’s the time to make that decision. Go on. Fuck off.”
Everybody looked to Zastarte, who lounged back, an easy grin on his face, long dark curls glossy by the firelight. His eyes glittered with comedy. “Oh, Kiki, how terribly dramatic! You are a fabulous storyteller, spinning your wonderful yarns of good and bad, law and order, the darkness in men’s souls. Ooh!” He gave a little shiver. “Even if there is no money here, now, there will be; when once again we build the legend of the Iron Wolves! All we need is to fight back another evil slathering horde and the kings and wealth and ladies will be lining up to be abused and robbed. You know this is the case.” He turned on Dek. “So, you can talk about honour and nobility and building the ego of a pointless old man, but I for one am in this for the cash and the infamy, dear boy.”
Dek growled and moved to get up. “Why, you pup, I’ll beat the likes of that talk from you with my bare hands.”
“Ah yes, our famous pit fighter shows his true colo
urs. Anything that cannot be conquered via the intellect must be mashed under the battered fists. I abhor your painful pointless brutality, Dek; you are an insult to the name of education and civilisation.”
“An insult, am I?” snarled Dek, face turning purple. “I’ll fucking educate you, you fanciful, pompous fuckwit!”
“Ooh, I do declare my fear… no, wait, I believe I gave a tremble.” Only Narnok caught the glint of the slender black dagger already in Zastarte’s fist and half-concealed by a lace wrist ruff.
Dek surged up, but Narnok grabbed his arm in an iron grip, and pulled him back. “He has a blade,” murmured the giant axeman.
Dek gave a nasty smile. “Yeah? Well, I can handle that.”
“Stop it!” snapped Kiki. “This is ridiculous. Vagandrak is under threat from an age-old enemy. Come on. We were attacked by those deviant horse creatures, and we were attacked by a marauding group of mud-orcs. That doesn’t happen randomly. That hasn’t happened for twenty-five damn years, since we slaughtered that bastard Morkagoth! There’s no smoke without fire. We know the score here, we’re not battle virgins. Stop bloody squabbling and let’s make an effort for the people of Vagandrak; let’s do what we do best: fight, and kill, the enemy; but most of all, let’s show Dalgoran his faith in us is not misplaced! Are you with me, Wolves?”
Dek stood. “I’m with you, Kiki. General.” He nodded at Dalgoran. “To the death.”
“Me also,” rumbled Narnok, climbing ponderously to his feet. He stared hard at Dek. “I hate this bastard here more than life itself, but will put aside my feud until we are clear of this new threat.” He hefted his axe, and Kiki swallowed. One day, their fight to the death was coming. And it would be an awesome, terrible battle.
“Trista?” Kiki’s voice had dropped in volume, was now gentle, as if dealing with a delicate child.
Trista looked up. Her face was unreadable, but she gave a single nod. “I have a need in my soul; a need for repentance. I have done so many bad things, I recognise my soul is cracked. I am damaged in here,” she clenched fist to breast, “and I’m struggling to put it right. But I will come with you. I will stand with General Dalgoran. After all, he is my father.” She gave a cold and brittle smile.