Legends II

by Ian Whates

  Red Wolf groaned and pushed himself out from under Dharma. Dap helped him up, to a standing position. He looked at his rifle. The barrel was bent. He dropped it.

  “Come on, we gotta go.”

  Another whistle and Dap felt something tug at his jacket.

  Crack.

  “Shit. He’s shooting again. Why the hell is he shooting at us?”

  The herd drew close. The dead woman with a tennis ball taped into her mouth led the mass of revenants.

  Dap pushed Red Wolf up and onto his horse, then swung behind. Blood from Red Wolf’s wound ran in streamers down his Kevlar leggings.

  “We gotta get you away from the herd before we can check out that leg.”

  He turned his horse, holding Red Wolf upright, and rode for the wood where he saw the flash of white, where Ransom had ridden.

  In moments, he was among the trees, working his way up a hill. Shots rang out behind him. He looked over his shoulder, and watched as undead swarmed Dharma and moved up the hill toward the wagon and Miller.

  Dap heard yelling.

  He rode into a small uneven clearing where Ransom held a boy of maybe twelve or thirteen, a hint of wispy beard on his chin. He was blond and grimy, dressed in clothes too small for his frame.

  The boy thrashed in Ransom’s grip. A rifle with an enormous scope lay on the ground.

  “Here’s the little sonofabitch. He’s gone feral. He shot at me but I was too close for him to see through that scope. Little idiot could’ve popped me if he’d of just raised his head from the eye-piece. Bit me good when I caught him.” He held up his hand. A bloody half-moon marred the webbing between thumb and index finger. “We should stake him and let the revs have him for dinner.”

  Red Wolf swayed in the saddle. Dap dismounted.

  He approached the boy. “Why the hell were you shooting us? You killed two...three men. Horses. And the town needs those supplies. Why?”

  The boy still thrashed, crying now. He said, “Momma. Momma.”

  Dap shook his head. “Bop him one to quiet him down.”

  “Wait.” Red Wolf slumped off the horse, leaving a bloody smear behind. “Let him go.”

  “Sorry, Red, but I’m not gonna do that. This little bastard’s gonna pay.” Ransom held him tightly.

  Red Wolf limped forward, removing his hat. Awkwardly, he went down on a knee.

  “Is she blond?” he said, softly.

  The boy stopped struggling and looked at Red Wolf, eyes large.

  “She died and you didn’t know what to do. You tried to keep her safe.” Red Wolf swallowed and his face hitched in pain. “You thought maybe there’d be a cure.”

  The boy nodded. “Momma.”

  Dap scratched his head and looked at Ransom.

  “So you tried to make her safe, yes? You put a tennis ball in her mouth to keep her from biting, but she got loose, didn’t she?”

  The boy nodded again. Dap cursed.

  “Goddamnit.” Dap turned away and kicked at the ground. He looked out at the herd. “That don’t matter, Red. It’s real nice you figured out what happened...” He pointed to the herd. It had turned and had begun making its way toward where they stood in the copse of trees. “But he killed our men. Our horses. If we haven’t lost all that scavenge, it’s gonna take some doing to get it back to the Ponderosa.”

  Red Wolf shook his head. “He’s just upset and trying to save his mother.”

  Dap spat. “So what should we do, then, send him to a shrink? Oh, I forgot. Ain’t no shrinks anymore.” He looked at the boy and said, “Hey, kid, your mother’s dead. She’ll eat your sorry ass if she gets a chance.”

  “I told you before, Dap, love doesn’t end at death.” He turned to Ransom. “Let him go. We’re men, not animals.”

  “No.” Ransom shook the boy.

  “Ransom, go ahead and stake him. We’ll wait here for a while and once the herds get close enough, we’ll flank ‘em and see what’s left of Miller and Simmons. Then we’ll lead the herd back to the races.” He didn’t look at Red Wolf, couldn’t meet his eyes. But he said, “Red, we’d never be safe with him. He can’t be trusted. He’ll kill us in our sleep. All over a dead woman.”

  At the mention of his mother, the boy squirmed, twisting his body wildly. Ransom lost his grip, and the boy’s hand suddenly sprouted a hunting knife. He drove it into Ransom’s neck, above the collar of Kevlar. Ransom toppled over. The boy froze, his eyes going wide, as if in disbelief of what he had just done. He looked from Ransom’s body to where Dap stood by Red Wolf. The moment lengthened, and then he moved, dashing away, into the trees. Dap began to run after him, but stopped.

  He turned to Red Wolf, who was having trouble standing. He picked up the boy’s discarded rifle.

  “Damn it, Red. Let’s get you up on the horse before Ransom goes revenant.”

  They were on the interstate, near the races, when Red Wolf slumped forward. He pitched onto the horse’s neck, arms dangling to the sides. Dap had removed his belt and put a tourniquet on his Red Wolf’s leg, but the Kevlar armour had hard plastic ridges, and getting the tourniquet tight enough was almost impossible without dismounting and disrobing Red Wolf. But Dap’s horse moved too slow for stops, after a long days ride and bearing two men. The herd was twenty yards away. Close.

  Dap said, “We got about thirty minutes, pard. Just hold on.” He patted his back.

  As best he could, Dap examined Red Wolf’s wound. The blood had blackened on the ride, becoming crusty. It looked as if it had stopped bleeding. But Red Wolf still stirred.

  “Get your rest, pard. We’ll be drinking in a few.”

  The mass of zombies were close behind them. In the distance, the corpse-fires pillared smoke into the atmosphere, tall black columns. Ever burning, Dap used the corpse-fires as a homing beacon. Soon they’d be near the chain-link fields.

  Looking over his horse’s rump, he spied Miller and Ransom shambling along with the rest of the undead. Simmons and Sunseri were missing. Head trauma, maybe. The blond woman with the tennis ball in her mouth still led.

  Dap looked at the fields surrounding the highway, searching for the boy. He was watching. Dap could feel it.

  “I’m gonna make sure she’s dead! Gonna grind her up! She’s gonna burn!” His voice was sore from yelling. “I’m gonna spike her head myself!”

  Silence, except for the lowing of the herd. Crows watched from dead power lines. Dap studied the treeline.

  “I got your gun! I’m gonna shoot her with it!”

  Red Wolf stirred, shaking his head.

  Dap could feel his body in front of him twist, coming to life. He patted Red Wolf again.

  “Look there, Red. There’s the fires, and here in a few we’ll be rolling into the races. Almost home. Just sit tight.”

  The horse nickered, tugging at the reins.

  They rode on, between derelict cars. The fields passed slowly by, scraggly corn and wheat growing untended by the hands of man. The wind came down from the hilltops and rustled grass near the road. They passed over a bridge, water gurgling below.

  The horse whinnied, rearing. A bloody hole showed in her mane where Red Wolf had chewed into her neck.

  In a moment of dislocation, Dap once again flipped ass over head and landed on the interstate, catching himself with his hands. Red Wolf’s body smacked into the pavement, two feet away, face first. The mare bolted, heading for home.

  The thing that had once been Red Wolf began to rise.

  The corpse turned and fastened its eyes on him.

  Dap scrambled backwards, and pulled his pistol. He stood, panting, in the late afternoon light. Red Wolf lurched forward, raising arms. He moaned.

  “Goddamnit, Red.” He shook his head.

  He drew back the hammer on his piece, with a click. He wiped his eyes with his palm, clearing the tears away.

  “Now you sound like one of them.”

  He raised the gun and fired. The corpse of Red Wolf slumped to the ground. Crows erupted from the
nearby trees.

  Dap looked at the fields. He screamed, an inchoate, lost sound. He dropped the pistol.

  “I’m a man, goddamit! I ain’t an animal! A man!” He turned to the herd. “A MAN!”

  He gasped for air. Tears streamed his face.

  “It’s a goddamned monster of a world,” Dap said, softly.

  Silence then, except for the caws of the carrion crows wheeling above the herd.

  He turned and ran. The herd lowed, following.

  The Iron Wolves: Retribution

  Andy Remic

  The creature was large, bulky, and shifted in the Stygian gloom of the icy mountain cave. Behind it came the whimpers of children, their noises timid, their screams and crying now spent as realisation and despair had taken firm root.

  The beast shuffled, moving closer to the cave mouth where a cool blue light filtered through the peaks of surrounding mountains on radiating bands of winter sunlight. It was bigger than a horse, although with differing physical proportions; a different build. It was… almost a horse, but not, for no foal could have emerged so twisted, so deformed, and lived. Bulging lumps of distended muscle protruded from a compact, slightly curved torso, a body that appeared to have been broken, the bones then fused back together again. The body was a rich chestnut colour, uneven skin patched with horse hair in segments, as if it had suffered the effects of a forest fire. It limped forward on three legs; the fourth, the front right, did not touch the ground, for it was too short and bent sideways at an irregular angle. Thick hooves still wore iron shoes, scarred and chipped, and above the uneven barrel chest was the head – a great, misshapen bulk, with broken equine face, long and tapered, but with the mouth pulled back, jacked open too far and showing huge, yellow fangs. The eyes were unevenly placed in a lopsided skull, one yellow, one black and double the size of the other, rolling wildly in the socket and speckled with internal bleeding. From one side of the disproportionate head curved a serrated horn, easily the length of a rapier, but grown from yellow bone, like a stray fang which had punctured the skull and grown outwards. There were notches and nicks on the horn, where battle had scarred it.

  That twisted horse head lowered, and turned, revealing the large black eye, and as it hobbled towards the cave entrance several large wounds could be seen on its flanks; great openings of crimson dripped tears of blood, pattering softly to the icy rock as if the whole body wept at its very existence.

  Inside the cave children began to wail, as light revealed the beast; a terrible, mournful sound to match the wind singing down from the high mountain passes: a song of sadness; a song of desolation.

  The beast settled down uncomfortably at the entrance, equine head resting on the ground and on one iron-shod hoof, like a hound guarding its master’s home. The black lips pulled back, showing cracked and chipped fangs, and borne on a sigh, like the exhalation from a corpse, came one word…

  “Narnok.”

  “Here’s trouble, looking for trouble,” growled Dek, the pit fighter, nodding over his tankard at the three large men who’d just entered The Fighting Cocks tavern. Lantern flames flickered at the draught from the outside storm, and through the framed portal Dek caught a glimpse of broiling skies and a jagged lightning strike.

  Narnok the Axeman turned and stared, scratching his beard. His savage face, with its crisscross of white torture scars and one good eye, one milky eye, showed a considered lack of emotion. He shrugged and turned back, one fist clenching involuntarily as he grasped his tankard and took a hefty drink. He belched. “There’s no trouble there, lad. Now, as I was saying, I’m still having these elf rat nightmares; they… they invaded my face and my mind with their dark magic.” He took another drink and his fingers touched tenderly at his lips, although there were no wounds. He gave a shudder, remembering the horror. “Those bastards.”

  Trista leant forward, her long-fingered hand with its unblemished skin resting on Narnok’s bear paw. “It’ll get easier,” she soothed, voice music, her eyes glittering as bright as the diamond bracelet on her wrist. Narnok stared at her, at her elegance, beauty, the painted lips and long, oiled blonde curls, the perfect teeth and regal, high cheekbones. “I promise, all things get easier, with the passage of time. And the elf rats are gone now, Narn; just like the mud-orcs before them.”

  “They’ll be back,” growled Narnok, face dark, eyebrows furrowed. “As you said, everything ends; everything falls apart.”

  Now Trista’s face darkened. “For that, Narn, I was referring to something else. And you damn well know it.” Trista had a… dark history. Betrayed shortly after her wedding day, she had embarked on a slaughter of newlyweds, for in her shattered, twisted mind she was saving them an agony in the future by immortalising their love at the point of marriage – with death. She had been saved, finally, by Kiki, Captain of the Iron Wolves, who had once more given her a purpose in life when General Dalgoran decided to reform their squad. But still, the bad memories, of marriage and murder, lingered, like old smoke from a honey-leaf pipe.

  “My apologies. I did not mean to offend. It’s just, after the elf rats cast that spell on me, after I was… invaded by their roots, it has given me a different perspective on life.”

  “Oh, will you actually shut the fuck up about the bloody elf rats,” snapped Dek. “You’ve become a real boring bastard, you know that? Whining on and on about the same horse shit, night after night. It’s over. It’s done. You survived.” Dek cracked his knuckles. “Get over it, Narnok.”

  “Why, you cheeky little bastard. You weren’t the poor victim who had roots growing through his flesh; have you no respect for a man’s personal living nightmare? I’ve a good mind to teach you a fucking lesson.”

  “You reckon, do you?” snarled Dek, his temper rising. He lifted himself from his seat, fists clenched. He was powerfully muscled, with a shaved head and small, dark eyes. Both arms were bare, showing several freshly stitched wounds and a myriad of tattoos, some only half finished. “I keep hearing these threats, Axeman, but you never actually show me.”

  “I’ll show you what it’s like to lose a few fucking teeth,” snarled Narnok, his own temper becoming inflamed. His eyes narrowed, and he licked his lips. “Like I did the last time.”

  “Yeah, I suppose you’ll be moaning again that I fucked your wife next.” Dek’s eyes were gleaming.

  “By the Seven Sisters, that’s below the belt, Dek, and you know it! Apologise.”

  “No.”

  “Apologise!” roared Narnok, surging to his feet.

  Dek rose to meet him. “I’ll apologise when you stop whining like a pig with a spear up its arse.”

  “I’m taking bets!” yelled Weasel, pulling out a well-worn stub of a pencil and a small, tatty notebook. A little man, and friend to Dek, Weasel was always there whether the odds were good or not; he was renowned for his arithmetical dexterity.

  Trista suddenly rose, snapping out two slender daggers, which she held to each man’s throat. The big men were suddenly very still, anger subsiding like a spent wave.

  “Gentlemen, your argument with one another is pointless,” Trista smiled, and removed the daggers, nodding ahead, “when there are plenty of others willing to offer you conflict.”

  Dex and Narnok turned, and stared at the three newcomers.

  “Trouble looking for trouble,” muttered Dek. “I told you.”

  “Shut up,” said Narnok, facing the three big men.

  One took the lead, stepping forward. He wore his black hair long, braided with silver wire, and his face was broad, swarthy, eyes dark under brooding, shaggy brows. A short sword of black iron was sheathed on his back, and he carried himself with a poise, a balance, that marked him as a warrior.

  “Narnok the Axeman?” he asked.

  “Fuck off,” said Narnok, hand on his knife. “I don’t know you. I don’t want to know you. Our conversation has ended.” He began to turn.

  “You are Narnok the Axeman, one of the… legendary Iron Wolves. You fought at Desekr
a, at the Pass of Splintered Bones against Orlana’s mud-orcs, and with your companions…” he nodded at Dek and Trista, “… helped slay the Horse Lady.”

  “So?” snapped Narnok. “What are you, her mother?”

  There came a ripple of laughter through The Fighting Cocks. They now had an audience.

  The newcomer frowned, but fought to retain his composure. “My name is Zall Karn; I come from a small village north-east of Dakerath, at the foot of the Naldak Teeth. I have been sent here to ask for your help, Narnok of the Axe.”

  “Well, I don’t do no favours,” snapped Narnok, and turned his back on the stranger.

  “There is a creature. A beast. One of Orlana’s… creations. It has stolen our children, taken them up into the mountains, to its lair. We tracked it, hunted it down; but it slew six of our men. It’s a ferocious beast. A killer. We only stopped when it threatened to kill all our little ones.”

  Narnok turned back, and read the anguish in the stranger’s eyes. He shrugged. “Sorry, mate. Truly. I am sorry for your loss. But I ain’t no fucking charity. Your problems are your own. Now let me finish my ale, or I’ll have my friend Dek here put you on your fucking back.” Narnok sat down and grasped his flagon, taking a hefty drink. Ale dribbled through his thick beard, staining his shirt.

  “This creature,” said Zall, his voice little more than a whisper of smoke which drifted through the tavern, curling like a snake eating its tail, “asked for you by name.”

  “Eh?” Narnok turned.

  “Orlana’s beast. It said it would release the children, but only if Narnok, one of the Iron Wolves, came to its lair.”

  Narnok shrugged. “As I said. I ain’t no charity. The door’s over there. Dek, mine’s a whiskey, mate.”

  “I don’t think you realise the gravity of the situation,” said Zall.

  Narnok ignored him. Dek glanced at Trista, who gave a little shrug and a half-smile. Her red dress shimmered as she moved, and she sat down, toying with her crystal flute of wine; but her eyes never left the three men, who were rooted to the spot, refusing to move.