The Iron Wolves
Page 39
And then Kiki stared at Orlana, the Changer, the Horse Lady, and she pointed, and her arm became black fire, her arm became retribution and lightning and rock and the earthquake all screamed and roared as the land beneath her feet suddenly crumbled, and her eyes flashed silver as she spoke words of power long lost, and the ground distorted, and Orlana was sucked away down in a sudden fast river of collapsing rock and soil and fire and lightning. Down down down she was dragged, deep beneath the world; and in the blink of a splice’s eye, she was gone.
Slowly, Kiki came around.
She stood on an island of rock. A pillar, amidst a sea of collapsed earth and rock and world. At her feet lay Dek and Narnok and Trista and Zastarte, all staring up at her in awe; true awe, shining in their eyes alongside fear, and horror, and raw terror.
Then Kiki fell to her knees, and her forehead touched the warm rock, and around her the earthquakes gradually rumbled to a halt. Gradually subsided. More rocks and columns and walls fell away, crumbling into the huge pits which now formed the majority of the plain before Desekra. And yet the fortress itself remained unharmed. The pits and chasms ran in jagged lines all the way up to the foot of Sanderlek, where they had swallowed many thousands of mud-orc corpses.
Kiki looked up, and Dek took her hand.
It began to snow, and amidst the snow was black ash.
“What did I do?”
Dek grinned at her. “You tore apart the world.”
Kiki stared at the insanity before her, the chasms and voids and random zig-zagging walkways of what remained of the plain. She turned her head, from left to right, astounded, truly astounded, by the act of destruction.
“I did this?”
“Yeah. I wouldn’t like to be on the wrong side of you on a bad bloody morning,” said Dek.
“Nonsense,” grinned Narnok, slapping Kiki on the back and nearly pitching her to her face. “She’s the Captain of the Iron Wolves! She’s our friend! Our comrade! Our ally! We have nothing to fear! Not like those sorry bastards down there!” He peered over the edge, and stones trickled treacherously.
Kiki smiled, then pitched to her side, shaking uncontrollably. She frothed at the mouth and her eyes went blank.
“Let’s get her to the surgeons,” said Trista, quietly.
“Agreed,” said Dek. “Who will help me carry her?”
And together, they bore Kiki’s unconscious body across the narrow, jagged walkways of rock, above mammoth fiery chasms filled with bottomless drops and raging fires and crumbling stone. She was limp, and spent, and done, and empty.
And happy. Kiki was happy.
Orlana was defeated. Vagandrak was saved.
EPILOGUE -
SOUR TIMES
Dawn broke, cold and full of ice. Snow fell heavily across a silent, broken, collapsed plain before the fortress of Desekra. Dek, Narnok, Trista and Zastarte stood on the battlements of Sanderlek, staring out at a fractured, malformed world beyond.
“We won,” said Dek, half in disbelief.
“Kiki beat them,” said Trista, grinning. “She fucking beat them.”
“What did she do?” asked Dek, voice filled with awe.
“She used the power of the elements, the power of Nature, the magick of the Equiem, the magick of Desekra,” rumbled Narnok, slowly. “She is a shamathe. A bloodline descendant of the shaman who used to rule this world. Remember Zunder? That bloody volcano? We should have known then.”
Dek shook his head. “She said she did not remember her childhood. Her early childhood.”
“Did not remember, or chose to repress?” said Narnok.
They were quiet for a while, staring out across the fractured plain. The world had changed. The Iron Wolves had changed.
“She sure killed the shit out of Orlana,” said Zastarte, softly.
Narnok looked at him. “I’m not sure she did,” he said.
“Meaning?”
“Meaning just that. Powers like Orlana don’t just simply die. She’ll be back. Mark my words. That bitch will be back. With her army. We’ve not seen the last of those mud-orc bastards. Gone, but not forgotten, eh?”
“Well,” said Dek, rolling his shoulders, “I don’t know about you, but I think we’ve earned a fucking drink.”
“Damn well said!” snorted Narnok. “But it has to be said, Dek my pretty little pit fighter, you’re buying!”
“And how do you work that one out?” snapped Dek.
“Because of what you did to my wife.”
“Ahh. Fair enough. But… you’ll never let that one lie, will you?”
Narnok stared hard, with his one good eye. “Never, ever, you back-stabbing bastard.”
Dek slept the sleep of a man after eighteen flagons of ale. When they came for him, he was ill-prepared. The helves beat down breaking his nose, eye-socket and jaw; breaking his arm and shin, and fracturing three ribs. They dragged him groaning to the dungeons of Desekra, where he was chained up tight against the wall and, still stunned beyond belief, wondered what the fuck had hit him.
Days passed. Days, melting into weeks.
Gradually, Dek learned that the others were in adjoining cells. Trista. Zastarte. Narnok. Kiki. All had been taken in their sleep, beaten to within an inch of their lives, then chained up in the dark and the damp, waiting for… what?
It came, after a month.
King Yoon, in all his finery, his silk, his lace and his velvet. He strode in with Captain Dokta and several others of his elite force. Yoon stared for a long time at Dek, who eventually spat vaguely in Yoon’s direction.
“What do you want, you fucker?”
“You dare…!”
“Oh yeah, fucking save it for the people. You were going to sell us out to the witch, and Kiki saved your backside and your kingdom. We all fought for you. Fought to save your lands, your palaces, your riches. And what thanks do we get? Broken bones and chained in your dungeon.”
“Well,” whispered Yoon, moving in close, “you’re going to like the rest of it, then, Mr Iron Wolf.”
“I think I might not,” said Dek, meeting Yoon’s gaze in utmost hate.
“You saved us, yes. But nobody here knows that. The soldiers out on the walls think they were saved by a simple earthquake; a random act of nature! Of course, you and I both know different, but I can’t have a random psychopathic bitch like Kiki running around with that sort of… power.” He stared hard at Dek. “Or indeed, any of you with that kind of power. So, you have been tried. You have been found guilty. And you have been sentenced.”
“Sentenced?” snarled Dek.
“Sentenced to death. By hanging. On the morrow.”
The sky was the colour of iron. The clouds were bruises inflicted against the sky. A cold bitter winter wind blew down the Pass of Splintered Bones, howling, mournful and desolate; and low as a tomb. Carpenters had erected a makeshift gallows on Sanderlek, protruding out so that the victims would be hung out over No Man’s Land. Without honour. In complete disgrace.
The convicted Wolves stood on the battlements where, only a few weeks earlier, they had fought, giving their lifeblood to defend their nation and its people.
A thousand soldiers of Vagandrak lined the walls. Sergeant Dunda stood to one side, face solemn, impassive, his great hands clenched behind his back, his armour and boots polished to an unholy shine.
Standing, chained, with black silk hoods over their heads, were the Iron Wolves.
Kiki. Dek. Narnok. Zastarte. Trista.
“The Iron Wolves have been found guilty on twelve counts of treason against His Majesty, King Yoon of Vagandrak,” read a small, pompous fat man from a vellum scroll. “These counts amount to theft, extortion, the murder of General Dalgoran, the kidnapping and imprisonment of various members of the royal family…”
“I’ll fucking show him imprisonment,” murmured Narnok, bristling.
“If you hadn’t had your pants round your ankles, we wouldn’t be in this mess,” snapped Dek.
“Thus proclaims M
r Two Kegs,” growled Narnok. “Maybe if you could hold your ale a little better, you might have heard the stampede to your door?”
“Silence amongst the prisoners!” squawked the bureaucrat.
“Or what?” bellowed Narnok. “You’ll fucking hang us?” His laughter roared across the walls of Desekra Fortress.
The list of misdemeanours continued, and Yoon watched from a specially erected stand built from oak and nails.
Eventually, the five members of the Iron Wolves were led to makeshift gallows. Rope nooses were placed about their necks.
Yoon watched on, impassively.
“I hereby pronounce a sentence of death,” whined the bureaucrat. “You five, members of the Iron Wolves, Kiki, Dek, Narnok, Zastarte and Trista, will hang by the neck until dead. Have you any final requests?”
“A longer rope?” boomed Narnok, laughter echoing.
Nobody answered his jest.
“I have one thing to say,” came the demure, measured voice of Kiki. Yoon made a throat-cutting gesture, but it was too late. Kiki continued, “Orlana the Changer, the Horse Lady, is far from dead. She will be back, Yoon. Back real soon. And who will protect you from her Equiem magick then?”
“Now,” said King Yoon, dark eyes flashing dangerously at the hangman. “Do it now. DO IT NOW!”
The hangman reached out, and with trembling, gloved fingers, took hold of a brass lever that operated the simple pulleys, which in turn dropped the trapdoors beneath the hooded victims.
Silence and shame rolled out across Desekra Fortress. Across the sundered plains of Zakora. Across the waiting, breathless World.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
As ever, there are a host of people to praise (and a host to curse, but we won’t go there today). I want to thank my wife Sonia for her strength and love. I want to thank my children, Joe and Olly, for always making me laugh and showing me the constant joy of being a father. I want to thank Ian Graham, as ever, for his constant support and camaraderie – the grizzled, stinking old goat. Thanks to Kevin and Lyndsay, for all the good times in the last year (and by God, I needed some of those). Angry Robots: Thanks to Marco, for commissioning this book and being one of the Good Guys; to Lee, for looking so very, very sexy (“Bring out the gimp” / “Gimp’s sleeping” / “Well, I guess you’re gonna have to wake him up, now, won’t you”); and Darren T, fellow NMA fanatic, gardening and real ale fan, for being such a good Anarchy contact. I’d like to thank “Mem”, whom inspired me with Aokigahara, and also for agreeing to be locked in shackles in the boot of my Jag (a very long story). And finally, I’d like to thank all the actors in my first feature film, the fun of making it helped bring me back from some very dark places.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Andy Remic is a British writer with a love of ancient warfare, mountain climbing and sword fighting. Once a member of the Army of Iron, he has since retired from a savage world of blood-oil magick and gnashing vachines, and works as an underworld smuggler of rare dog-gems in the seedy districts of Falanor. In his spare time, he writes out his fantastical adventures.
andyremic.com
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