Legends II

by Ian Whates

  This is going to turn ugly, she thought, and calmed her mind, readying for battle.

  “Do you fight?” said Zall, suddenly. Narnok turned, and Dek looked up. “How about a wager? If I can put this one,” he gestured casually at Dek with his thumb, “on his back, will you travel with us? Talk to this beast that seems to know your name?”

  “What do I get if he wins?”

  “I have a pouch of silver here.” He palmed it, dropped it on the table with a solid thunk. “That should cover any breakages.”

  “Oi!” snapped Dek. “Don’t be arranging shit when I’m stood bloody next to you, right?”

  “Well, do you think you can beat him?”

  Dek eyed Zall up and down. “In my sleep, mate.”

  “I’m taking bets!” shouted Weasel, chewing the end of his stubby pencil, and there was sudden activity as tables and chairs were dragged out of the way, wooden legs scraping the stone-paved floor to create a space at the centre of The Fighting Cock’s main tavern room.

  Dek removed his shirt, stretched out his back and shoulders, rolling his head with associated cracks of released tension. His physique was impressive, and damaged. Whilst athletic and well-muscled, he was a map of tattoos, scars and stitches.

  Zall moved to a table, and his companions sat, taking the big man’s cloak and shirt. Zall revealed a broad chest, thick with hair, and heavily muscled arms. In contrast, his body was clean, unlike Dek’s, which almost represented an experimental cadaver from the medical hub at Vagan University.

  Weasel, frantically scribbling, moved to the centre of the space and Dek and Zall approached one another.

  “Right,” snapped Weasel. “I want a clean fight. Well, kind of clean. No biting, eye-gouging or fish-hooking. When a fighter’s down, the other backs off. You both understand?”

  “Do we look like idiots?” snapped Dek, and Weasel paddled backwards, scribbling in his notebook, dark eyes glittering.

  A rough circle had formed. Narnok sat, Trista standing behind him, both their eyes checking out Zall’s two companions. If things went bad, they might have to move fast. Narnok made certain his double-headed axe was close by.

  Dek approached leisurely, for he was an experienced pit fighter, and not one to rush in. He knew his limitations; there weren’t many. Zall, also, weighed up Dek. He threw two straight rights, then a left hook which Dek took on his elbow, stepping in close and delivering a head butt that sent Zall staggering back, blood leaking from his nose.

  “Just a warning,” winked Dek, lifting his fists once more in a traditional pugilist’s stance.

  Zall mopped blood using the back of his hand, then grinned at Dek. “Your warning is well received.”

  He rushed in suddenly, grabbing Dek by the waist and powering him through the circle of people. They crashed into tables and chairs, sending them flying, but Dek rolled easily to one side, standing and whirling on Zall, who was already up, defence in place.

  They moved back to centre of the circle.

  “You’ll be paying for all this shit,” shouted Baderman, from behind the bar on which rested the gleaming, oiled stock of a Vagall & Vinters Model 3 crossbow. Just as a casual warning.

  Dek waved the comment away, and charged Zall, and there came a flurry of punches, straights, hooks and uppercuts. Both men were fast, powerful, but Dek was experienced and caught Zall a tight fast right hook to the jaw, a left straight to the nose, then an overhead slam to the temple which put Zall down on one knee, head lowered, saliva drooling to the paving flags.

  The game was over. Zall was out and done.

  Dek gave a tight smile, and stepped in for the kill, but Zall looked up fast – like a striking snake – and delivered a short punch to Dek’s balls that sent the pit fighter staggering back, face turning purple. Zall launched himself forward, and five punches put Dek on his back, where he lay stunned for a moment, before growling and rocking to his feet.

  “I’m going to break out all your teeth for that, fucker,” he snarled.

  Zall spread his hands apart, and smiled. “But the wager is over. I won. I put you on your back. That was the deal.”

  Dek ran the words through his anger-fuelled mind, then turned and stared at Narnok, who leapt to his feet, stomping over to Dek.

  “You bloody idiot! Look what you’ve done! I thought you said you could beat him…”

  “Well, I didn’t see you stepping into the ring!”

  “Because you’re the bloody pit fighter!”

  Laughter had broken out, and the crowd moved in, surrounding Dek.

  “You lost that fair and square,” said one man.

  “It’s been near two years since I saw you hit the ground,” said another, slapping Dek on the back.

  “You’ve got to admit, he lured you in, then took out your bollocks,” laughed a third.

  Trista came over and, reaching up, put a hand on both Narnok’s and Dek’s shoulders. “Looks like we have a little journey to make.” She smiled, sweetly, and moved on to the bar.

  “We?” shouted Narnok, after her retreating red dress.

  She looked back and gave a dazzling smile that had no place on the face of a killer. “Why of course, honeycake. We are The Iron Wolves, after all.”

  Snow was falling, the sky was bright, and Narnok had a bastard of a hangover. He glanced over to Dek, who’d just spoken and was staring expectantly, awaiting a reply. A cold wind gusted, rattling the leaves of the trees and bringing with it flurries of powdered snow.

  “Eh?”

  “I said, we should be there and back in three days. Gods, Narnok, you look like you drank the barrel.”

  Narnok groaned. “I think it was maybe two.”

  Their horses picked a modest pace down the forest trail, amidst a smattering of oak and ash, dotted with towering red pine and spruce that swayed in the breeze, higher needles whispering. Ahead rode Zall and his two companions, their moods grim. This wasn’t a journey of leisure, but of desperation. It would seem their hope in Narnok was not high. They did not appear impressed by what they had witnessed.

  “I still can’t believe you lost the fight,” moaned Narnok, scratching his thick beard. “Even I could have done better than that. By the Holy Mother, even Trista could have bested him!”

  “I am actually listening to your conversation, you know,” Trista said primly. She was riding a fifteen-hand grey, and had foregone the red dress in favour of canvas trews, leather boots and a thick wool coat of dark green. Her blonde curls were tied back, and she had a narrow rapier sheathed at her left hip, along with a vast assortment of hidden knives and throwing daggers, and an unstrung yew bow.

  “Well Tris, all I’m doing is pointing out to this fight-losing oaf that you, even though you’re a girl, could have decked that big bastard and we wouldn’t be heading out into the wilds on some pointless mission.” He grinned at her, showing a cracked tooth.

  “First,” observed Trista, “even though I’m a girl, I could have taken both of them out together.” She smiled, a narrow slash of red. “And second, and more pointedly, both would have had their throats cut.” Her face turned serious. “When I fight, I kill.”

  “Point taken, point taken,” rumbled Narnok, looking sheepish.

  They travelled through the day, along winding forest tracks that rose from the evergreens up a series of rolling hillsides, and past an abandoned village, the stone shells of former buildings, eerie and ghost-like in their silence.

  Snow fell, lightly at first but increasing in intensity as the hillsides became more and more dotted with boulders, and they began to climb, horses labouring. The Naldak Teeth loomed close, dominating the sky, forbidding in their sheer bulk. These were peaks said to be haunted and, because there were generous paths around the foothills, nobody except convicted criminals and soldiers on the run felt the need to venture into the Naldaks. Nobody who was sane, at any rate.

  Zall fell back to them as the sky darkened. “We’re only an hour from my village. We can shelter there for
the night, and head into the mountains at dawn. If that suits you?”

  “Will there be food and ale?” snapped Narnok. He found that the older he got, the less he relied on formalities. Like simple manners.

  “Hot fires, fresh baked bread, salt-cured pork and home-brewed ale.”

  “That would be good,” said Narnok, nodding, his eyes hooded.

  Trista cantered alongside him. “Are you well, honeycake? You seem… rude. Well, ruder than your usual self.”

  “I am pondering. On this creature, one of Orlana’s splice by the sounds of it, which asks for me by name. Why? By all the demons of the Chaos Halls, why would it ask for me? This stinks worse than a ten-day dog corpse, Tris.”

  “This whole thing could be a trap, Axeman.”

  “Hmm. I think not. There are easier ways to assassinate an old soldier. No, I believe their story; I just can’t fathom why this bastard would seek to talk to me, of all the grumpy old Wolves he could find.”

  “Maybe he doesn’t want to talk. Maybe he sucks the marrow from old heroes’ bones?”

  Narnok fastened Trista with a hard stare, his one good eye narrowed, his milky eye, as usual, giving his face a harsh, unfriendly appearance. He looked less like a hero, more… mass-murderer.

  “That isn’t even funny.”

  The night passed without event, and Zall was good to his word. The village turned out to see Narnok, Dek and Trista arrive, lining the short, frozen-mud street, and Narnok wriggled uncomfortably under their sombre, sorrowful gazes. A village without children… A town where all sixteen little ones had been kidnapped by some terrible monstrosity. It sounded like a heroic song crooned by a bard who was earning his supper. Only now, now the pressure was on Narnok to save the day. Good old Narnok, hero of Desekra, a true and elite trained Iron Wolf. He’ll save the day. He’ll bring the children back. Only Narnok wasn’t sure the villagers had any faith in the battered old soldier before them. He wasn’t a pretty picture. And he stank like he’d drank half of Vagandrak’s distilleries.

  The bread was warm, with fresh butter. The pork, a little over-salted, was succulent. The ale was weak, watered down to last the winter. But they did not complain. They welcomed the simple hospitality.

  Zall’s house was modest, but Trista was given her own room, and Dek and Narnok shared a second.

  As they huddled down under rough, scratchy blankets, Dek blew out the candle.

  “Dek?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Do you think we can rescue these children?”

  “I’ll die trying.”

  There was a long pause.

  “Dek?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Why?”

  Another long pause.

  “It’s just something we have to do, Narn. It’s… the right thing to do. To protect those who need our protection. That’s why I joined the army. That’s why General Dalgoran picked us out as Iron Wolves. For the training, like. We were the right… breed.”

  “It could be argued that you abuse your skills in the pit. After all, that training wasn’t meant for hurt against civilians. And you sure hurt plenty.”

  Dek smiled in the darkness. “Better a pit fighter than the master of a whorehouse. The Pleasure Parlour, wasn’t it? Now that is abuse of one’s former privilege.” He was referring to Narnok’s previous employment, until an over-enthusiastic member of a criminal syndicate brought Narnok’s little empire crashing down.

  Narnok considered this. “You’re wrong, Dek. My whorehouse was a good place for the girls to work. Safe for them. I made sure of that.”

  “So you were offering a public service? Looking after the girls, so to speak?”

  “Aye.” Narnok yawned. “Aye. I suppose I was. Get some shut-eye, lad. We have a busy day tomorrow. Rescuing kiddies, and such-like.”

  “You know them splice take some fucking killing.” Dek’s voice was low, contemplative.

  “Well, lad, we’d better do it right, then.”

  The horses managed the first thousand feet of the climb into the Naldak Teeth, and below them a world of folded white opened like a billowing satin cloak. The snow had stopped, but as they passed where the last straggled evergreens had given up the fight due to altitude, it came back with a fury, blasting them with a diagonal violence. By an oval of narrow standing stones they tethered the horses, then Zall and his men led the way up a steep path which snaked between two chimneys of teetering, towering rock. Ice had formed beautiful symmetry, a frozen waterfall; they climbed past this, emerging onto a narrow ledge.

  “Look,” said Dek, gesturing.

  The world lay before them, a vision of sparkling crystal, a vast, pastel painting of subtle perfection.

  “Let’s get on to the beast,” snapped Narnok, loosening his axe on his back. Twin blades gleamed, black and evil; soul-takers, widow-makers, bastard-slayers. “I ain’t got all day.”

  Higher they climbed, until the ground suddenly levelled out between two walls of rock. A small valley opened before them. It was littered with rocks, and snow, and icicles as big as a man.

  “The cave is at the end,” said Zall. His demeanour oozed fear. It emanated from his core like smoke drifting from a volcano. He took a step back.

  “Not coming with us?” rumbled Narnok, unkindly. His single eye glittered and, reaching back, he unsheathed his axe. The twin blades were rimed with ice. They gleamed, as if acknowledging the time had come, a time for slaughter.

  “It asked for you,” said Zall, and Narnok realised: the man had found his breaking point. Every man had one. For some it was the loss of limbs, or cancer. For this man, it was the possibility Narnok would fail. The chance he would not be able to rescue the children of the village.

  “Stay here. I’ll be back shortly,” rumbled Narnok, and flashed a gap-toothed smile.

  He set off, boots rattling rocks, and Dek and Trista padded along behind him.

  He stopped. And turned.

  “Yeah?”

  “We’re coming with you, obviously,” said Trista.

  Narnok shook his head. “No. This is… strange. This is just for me. I can sense it, in my bones.”

  “We’re Wolves,” said Dek. “If you face death, then by the Seven Sisters, we all fucking face it.”

  Narnok considered this; he gave them a hard smile. “So be it,” he said.

  They marched down the valley, a natural tomb created by the mountains. Huge rocks appeared as gravestones, their chiselled names and dates weathered by the elements over millennia. The wind howled between the rocks, low and mournful, the voice of widows, the voice of orphans.

  “Great,” muttered Narnok, and gave his axe several experimental swings. It whistled, like an old friend. An old lover. A girlfriend… A doting wife. A betraying wife. A wife who’d hired a torturer to cut up his fucking face, burn out his eye with acid, just to find the…

  Money.

  Ahhh. The money.

  Narnok smiled, as the old violence settled into him. It spread through him, like blood through fresh spring water. It seeped through his bones and soul, and equilibrium found him, and he welcomed it, and he was ready for the art of killing. Ready for the death.

  The valley ended at a series of caves. A soft, mournful song emerged. The mountain was singing for him.

  “Creature!” bellowed Narnok, suddenly. “Show yourself! I am Narnok of the Axe, and you requested my presence. Well, I’m here, you bastard, and I’m ready. I want the children of the village now, or I’ll…”

  It came from the central cave, limping, its huge, distended head grinning at him with a maw that was beyond nightmare. The distorted equine head shook, the curved side-horn cutting a gleaming sigil of Equiem magick through the gloom of the mountain ravine. The beast was horrific, and it stank of putrefaction. Several large wounds in its flanks had started to rot. Narnok welcomed this. Hopefully, it would slow the bastard down.

  Iron hooves struck sparks from the icy rocks, and the splice lowered its head, eyes looking up as its h
uge bulk, its solid cords of muscle, quivered in readiness to attack. It was huge, bent, broken and reformed; one of Orlana’s twisted creations; one of Orlana’s meldings of man and horse and dark, evil blood-oil magick.

  Dek moved closer. There was a sliding of steel as he unsheathed his black iron short sword. Narnok was aware of Trista’s bow in her hand. She could put down five shafts in the time it took the beast to attack… and yet. Yet still they stood, observing one another.

  “I want the children,” said Narnok, voice hard. But fuck, he thought, that’s one savage piece of twisted magick horse shit. The question is: Can we kill it?

  “Come… and get them,” spoke the splice.

  Narnok’s face frowned, and the old anger came back. “Listen, bastard, release the kids. I am here. Release them, and then we will fight, and I’ll settle whatever twisted retribution you have come here for.”

  “Of… course.”

  Narnok watched in absolute disbelief as the splice stepped to the side, and turning its great deformed horse head, said something to the darkness of the cave interior. The children ran forward, haggard, filth-smeared, many barefoot; crying, they sprinted down the valley, dodging rocks, their feet leaving imprints in the powdered snow.

  At the end of the valley, Zall and the other men fell to their knees, weeping, their arms open to welcome back their children.

  Narnok turned, and took a deep breath. “Now I kill you,” he said, marching forward, knuckles white as he clenched his axe. If I can.

  Trista notched an arrow, the string drawn back, fletch against her cheek. Her breath plumed in the chill air, like dragon smoke. Her grey eyes were emotionless.

  The splice grunted, and blood pattered against the rock from an old, opened wound. Then it grinned at Narnok, with those great yellow fangs, those drooling black horse lips, and the eyes surveyed him unevenly and… Narnok shivered to the core of his soul.

  “Don’t you recognise me, Narn?” said the splice.

  Narnok shivered. “No,” he said.

  “Come into my cave,” said the beast.

  Narnok stared at that massive creature, at the horn and the fangs, and the buckled iron hooves which had no doubt caved in a hundred skulls. He breathed deep the freezing mountain air.