by Andy Remic
Dek rode at the back of the group, his resentment building with a fury he did not think possible. They were up ahead, he thought, laughing, joking, talking, and nobody was serious anymore, nobody had fucking honour or respect or nobility anymore. It was all about the flesh and the prize and the money and the sex and the power and the glory. Fucking insects. They might as well be fucking insects. He’d stamp on them and watch them crushed under his boots. His mother had told him as much, between her words of love and understanding and caring. She’d brought him up well, with a strong moral code, and even now he was breaking that code by thinking of the bad words, the evil words, the words that invaded a man’s soul and made him far less than human. You should never swear, she would say. It demeans you. Makes you less than whole. It’s not necessary. If you cannot say it with the normal language offered by the Seven Sisters – well, don’t say it at all. And he believed her. He trusted her. As did his brother. As did his family. For she had been a good mother, standing strong and tall when his father died. She was all he had left. All any of them had left. And she fed them and cared for them, made sure they had shoes and clothes and went to school; instilled in them the good moral code. As it should be. As it always should be. So, how then, after all the years of effort and selflessness, after the fucking decades of giving, fucking giving with absolutely no questions asked, no need for repayment of any sort – how was it everybody turned against her? How was it his brother, and sister, and nephews and nieces – how was it they all ignored her in her hour of need? Dek’s rage was big. Bigger than him. Bigger than Vagandrak. Bigger than the fucking world. It was something that would slumber, and burn him like hot coals in his eyes and heart and soul. Rage, yes. And a lack of comprehension. How could people – how could family, fucking family – be so… callous, and uncaring, and pathetic, and weak, and ignoble, and traitorous, and shameful, towards the woman who had shown them nothing but love and caring and generosity? The rage expanded. Engulfed Dek.
Because... because they were selfish fucks caught up in their own petty woes and moans and plots and whines and difficulties, and they could not see the picture, could not see the bigger picture, could not see the wood for the trees, could not give their precious fucking time for an old woman on her death bed. Shame filled Dek like a smith’s firepot, poured full of molten iron. And when it cooled, it would be hard, and maybe brittle, just like Dek’s mind. Ragorek was dead. Poor, poor Ragorek. Well fuck him, thought Dek. Fuck that back-stabbing bastard. He deserved to die. He deserved the ignoble pile of shit that waited him at the end. Because he abused Trust. He abused Honour. And he abused Love. And now? Caustic laughter echoing between the ancient, twisted trees older than him; older than Vagandrak; older than Time. Now, there is only one answer for my lack of understanding, my lack of care, my lack of justice, my lack of love. Now, all I can do is roll over and die like I should have done twenty years ago under Morkagoth’s blade and the twisted magick of the Equiem.
Horse hooves were muffled in the gloom of Sayansora alv Drakka.
Dying light spilled across slack, exhausted faces.
Night was coming; they needed a place to camp.
Kiki found it, in her half-aware dreamstate. It was a small clearing in the woodland, within a circle of small standing stones. Each stone was half the height of a man, and worn for centuries by the elements to smooth arches.
They slowly dismounted, as if limbs were filled with lead, heads overflowing with old dreams and older ambitions and dark bitter memories. They hobbled the creatures, which moved slowly, as if awaking from a great sleep, and then laid out blankets under the trees. It was warm. Warm enough after the snow and harsh winds of the wildlands. They laid out their blankets and ate oatmeal cakes in silence, drank water in silence and lay down in silence. The melancholy was like some deep and embittered music. Nostalgia flowed like wine. Confusion was a rug, a welcome drug, and each individual member of the Iron Wolves were not just lulled by the forest, they were tugged into it, became a part of it, became a part of intertwining memories; became a part of… history.
They lay down on comfortable blankets.
The forest was silent as the grave. Deserted as a tomb.
And closing their eyes, each member of the Iron Wolves gradually fell to slumber: to sleep, to sleep.
Last to go was General Dalgoran. In him there was no bitterness. In him there was no hate. In him, there was no need for power or money or glory or battlelust or retribution of any kind. All was gone and done and dead on a distant battlefield a million years previous. Everything fell away like dust brushed from the lapels of an old army jacket.
Dalgoran remembered the first time he saw Farsala. With her long dark curls, her full lips, her large gold jewellery, she had the look of the wild travelling women in their ornate caravans of red and green and gold. She’d been cocky, strong-willed, wild, and Dalgoran remembered every single moment of that first conversation, each word a honey drop on his tongue; he remembered every nuance of gesture, every tilt of her head, every flutter of eyelashes, every smile or half-smile or twitch of her lips. She was a demon in his soul, invading his soul. Worse than any demon, for she took him in an instant and crushed his future into her own without the slightest bit of effort. And he did not object. On the contrary, he welcomed it as something he’d never before dreamt as possible. Within minutes they were in love, within days they were pledged to one another eternal. It had been a swift wedding ceremony. They weren’t interested in pleasing pointless family; only in expressing their everlasting love for one another. They’d lived a long and interesting life. Borne fine strong children. They’d worked hard together, played hard together. Making love had been gentle and fulfilling, or wild and exciting. Tending the gardens had been an act of harmonious joy. Raising their children had been a long and beautiful procedure, filled with a million tiny intricate joys, a subtle smile, first time walks, first words, giggling slurps, thrown chocolate cake, amusing mispronunciations, then watching them grow tall and strong, bright and intelligent as the years flowed by and Dalgoran rose in rank and trained the armies of King Tarek. There had always been a low-level constant threat that was part of being a soldier; the constant possibility of death lurking, either thrown from a horse during a cavalry charge, a misplaced arrow, a savage sword blow in the heat of a skirmish with Zakora. But it was as if Dalgoran was blessed. He’d taken cuts, but nothing ever serious; nothing mortal. And he’d killed men, but it was always about keeping the peace, always about protecting the good people of Vagandrak. Everything had been so good, so right, the pieces of a puzzle locking into place.
The years rolled by…
And then Farsala died.
Tears rolled down Dalgoran’s cheeks. Above him, the trees shifted in a kind of ethereal witch-light. Around him, the Iron Wolves slept in complete silence. No movement, no snoring, no rustling.
They slept like the dead.
Slowly, Dalgoran reached down under the blankets and pulled a short dagger from a sheath in his boot. More tears rolled down his cheeks and a single bright pinprick of light focused his entire mind, his being, his soul. He relaxed back in his blankets, and exhaled, and the world felt right, the time felt right, and the trees moved above him like a soothing lover, and he hardly felt the bite of razor steel as it crossed his wrist. A flood of warmth eased over his arm, then over his chest where he held his clenched fist to his breast. He could hear the beat of his heart, a rhythmic thumping, and there was no pain, there was no hate, his mind was bright and white and clean, and Farsala would be waiting for him on the Other Side.
They would spend eternity together.
He listened to the beat of his heart. Gradually, it started to slow.
Dalgoran closed his eyes.
He smiled.
He remembered Farsala’s first smile.
Their first kiss.
Their first child.
And his heart stopped, and General Dalgoran died.
A DARK AND DANGEROUS PATH
“Why?” said Kiki, softly. She leant forward on her knees and took Dalgoran’s hand in her own, and squeezed his freezing dead fingers. Her eyes strayed to the other hand and the wrist with the neat razor slash. She turned and stared at the faces of Dek, then Narnok, then Trista, and finally Zastarte.
“This place got to him,” rumbled Narnok. He shuddered. “I had very, very bad dreams.”
“Me also,” said Dek.
“Did you want to kill yourself?” Narnok turned his harsh scarred face on Dek, who flinched, seeming to shiver, then looked down at the dead pine needles on the ground.
“I’m… not sure. I was filled with hate and melancholy.” He glanced up suddenly, head swaying left and right, eyes sweeping the trees. “It’s this fucking place! It’s… evil. There’s something here that wants us to die; to join it. Them.”
“Angry spirits?” said Trista, softly.
“Maybe,” said Dek.
“We can’t leave him here. His body, I mean.” Kiki glanced around.
The others stared at her. Finally, Narnok said, “That’s ridiculous. We’ll bury him here and be done with it. We’re not dragging a corpse across half the damn country.”
“It’s not a corpse, it’s Dalgoran,” said Kiki through clenched teeth.
“No, my dear, it’s simply dead meat. Dalgoran has gone.”
Kiki stared at Narnok. “Don’t cross me on this, Narnok.”
“We are not taking his body across Vagandrak.”
“You try and fucking stop me, and I’ll cut out your other eye.”
Narnok scowled. “You think you can threaten me and I’ll stand here and take it?” He hefted his axe. “You really think you’ve got what it takes, bitch?”
Kiki stood and unsheathed her sword. She stared at them, slowly, one after the other. “I’m taking Dalgoran out of this place. Anybody stands in my way, I’ll kill them. I can’t say it clearer than that.”
Dek rose and placed a restraining arm on Narnok. “Leave her be, Big Man.”
“Or what will you do? Find another way to stab me in the back?”
“Guys, guys, guys,” said Zastarte, standing, tossing back his dark curls, holding both hands out, palms flat in some form of supplication. “This is ridiculous. Sayansora does this to people, can’t you see? This place wants your souls. It wants your blood. Instead of standing around squabbling like a bunch of village idiots, we need to mount up and get out. And I kind of agree with Kiki; there is no honour leaving Dalgoran in a place such as this. It could well be a condemnation for his eternal soul.”
“Who are you calling a fucking village idiot?” snarled Narnok, rounding on Zastarte.
“Er. You?”
“I’ll carve you a new quim, mate.”
“Thus I rest my case.”
They stared at each other, and Zastarte’s hand inched towards his rapier.
“Touch it and I’ll remove your hand,” growled Narnok.
“The very same words spoken by the last man I tortured, disembowelled and set on fire whilst he was still breathing. He stank like a burning pig as he screamed and begged. I had his skull mounted in a glass case in my home. Go easy with your threats, Narnok One Eye, or maybe you too can experience the pleasure of my dungeon.”
“Wait!” snapped Kiki. “Truly. There is no need for this. I will take Dalgoran’s body and bury it myself when we leave the Drakka on our way to the Pass of Splintered Bones.”
There was an uneasy silence, and Kiki looked at the Iron Wolves once more. Then she frowned. “What is it?”
“You say it,” muttered Dek, nudging Narnok.
“Well,” rumbled the large axeman, “the thing is, this mission to Desekra, it was all based on Dalgoran and his prophecy and shit. The thing is, he offered us gold, lots of gold, and now he’s dead.”
“So?” Kiki’s words were acid.
“So, we was wondering if now Dalgoran is dead, would we still get the gold? I mean, who’s to say what he promised us or not? We might get there and do all this fighting and save the fucking realm again, and still be penniless afterwards. That King Yoon, he’s supposed to be crazy, so they say. Why would he back us up? Why would he honour any debt? Why would anybody honour the debt of a dying old general?”
Kiki stared hard at Narnok, then at Dek, and Trista, and Zastarte.
“So, you’re all here for the gold?”
“Not all of us,” said Dek.
“But it would come in handy,” said Trista. “It always does. And let’s be honest, we are mercenaries. Each and every one of us.”
“Dalgoran is… was my father.”
“So?” said Narnok. And gave a semi-toothless grin.
“Are you refusing to come with me?”
“No, of course not,” said Dek smoothly. “I’m with you, for one. For old times’ sake. For the years we spent as the Wolves; for the past, the present and the future. I’ll stand beside you, Kiki. I love you like no other.”
“You loved my wife more,” mumbled Narnok.
“Shut your mouth, fat man, lest I hack out your tongue.”
“Guys, guys, really, I implore, we need to leave this place. Before it kills us.”
They nodded and started to move to their mounts, but Kiki gave a cough and held up a hand. “Wait. There is one last thing. Before he died, before he committed suicide, Dalgoran told me one thing of great importance.”
“Spit it out,” rumbled Narnok.
“He told me how to lift the curse.”
There was a stunned silence.
Eventually, Dek spoke. “But he said it was impossible! After we made the binding, after we spoke the lore, after they used their magick; it was a one way process. Dalgoran and Jagged, Meyton and Dalgerberg; they said it could never be taken back. We were cursed. For eternity. Or at least, till the day we died.”
“Apparently, they lied.”
“Give me his body,” growled Narnok, hefting his axe, “I’ll cut up the old fucker right now!”
“Back!” snapped Dek, his own blade singing free. “Can’t you hear what she’s saying? Don’t you fucking understand, you big oaf? She can free us.” His eyes were gleaming as he looked around at the Iron Wolves. “She can free us all!”
“Are you sure, Kiki?” asked Zastarte. His face was impassive, but his eyes were shining. “He told? Told you how to do it?”
“Yes. I swear it. By the Seven Sisters.”
“How?” growled Narnok.
“Yes, how?” said Dek.
Kiki gave a narrow smile. “I’ll tell you when we reach Desekra.”
“Reach…” Narnok gave a broad, nasty smile. “So, you’re holding us to ransom to get where you want?”
“You said to Dalgoran, each of you said you would come to Desekra and help turn back the mud-orcs and the Changer. What else has altered? Only now I offer you a greater prize. I offer you your…”
“Freedom,” said Dek, eyes narrowed.
“You must tell us, sweetie,” said Trista, moving close. But Kiki stepped back and lowered the point of her sword to Trista’s belly.
“Drop the fucking blade.”
Trista sighed, and the concealed iron dagger hit the frosted ground.
“And the other.”
A second knife followed.
“If you kill me, you’ll never find out. If you help me, we can all win this ga
me.”
“Sweetie, I was simply going to mention that if you die, on the journey, for example, if we are attacked by mud-orcs or splice, then the secret will die with you. We will always be cursed.”
“And a few moments ago, that was the way you thought it was always going to be. So, nothing will have changed, will it? Sweetie.” Kiki swept an angry gaze across the group. “I thought better of you people; I thought we were locked in kinship by bonds of honour stronger than any iron chains. But I see I was sorely mistaken. You were the Iron Wolves, but you have fallen a long way since then, fallen faster than any dark angel plummeting to earth and the Furnace deep below. I see I will have to watch my back. But listen, and listen good. The only way I’ll help lift the curse we all suffer is if you help me get to where I want to be. We have a common goal. Do we understand one another?”
“I’ll stand by you,” said Dek, voice hard.
“And I,” said Narnok. “You can rest easy, Little One. I’ll see nobody harms you. I want this dark magick out of my blood. Out of my soul. I would cross oceans and kill armies to achieve it. If that’s what it takes.”
Kiki nodded. “So, not for honour and old times’ sake, then. But for personal gain. But I can live with that. At least I understand the mercenary part of your soul.” She turned on Trista and Zastarte. “And what about you two? Do I have to worry about a knife in the back, or can we agree that for your help, I can help purify your blood? And your souls.” She gave a narrow smile. “You know only I can do it. You know only I hold the key.”
“You have me,” said Zastarte with his easy flamboyant smile. “No catch. I’ll do what it takes. You want us to fight? Be the Big Heroes? Drive out the mud-orcs? Slay Orlana? We can do all that. Or die trying.”