by Andy Remic
smiled.
“It’s fucking smiling,” said Zandbar, through gritted teeth.
“Shut up,” said Chanduquar.
“What happens next?”
“If the splice gets pissed at something, we’re all fucking dead.”
Zandbar nodded, eyes saucer-wide.
“Undo the chains,” said Yoon, eyes fixed on those differing orbs of the splice. And he moved ever forward, within lunging distance now, and he reached out and gently touched the creature. The splice’s great, uneven head tilted to one side, and it started to… croon. It was a sickening sound, like the death rattle from a wounded horse, and it made all present shiver, hairs standing up on forearms and necks, and Yoon was gazing into those eyes like a lover.
A guard moved to another set of levers and pulleys, and very slowly, pulled one. The chains on the splice went slack, and now, now the creature really could kill if it so chose. But it didn’t. It allowed King Yoon to slowly run his hand up its snout, past ridges of broken and mended bone, past tufts of sprouting hair, over ridges and corrugations of burned flesh. And all it did was croon, and blink, the great red eye filled with blood as it gazed adoringly at Yoon.
“What the fuck is going on?” whispered Zandbar from the corner of his mouth. His skin was crawling. His mind was flitting. Every primeval sense he had screamed at him to get the fuck out of the chamber before the splice launched at him and tore him limb from limb.
“It trusts him,” said Chanduquar, voice quavering.
Zandbar looked at the wizened, alcoholic old magick man, the priest, shaman, whatever the hell he was. His eyebrows lifted a little. “Really?” he said.
Chanduquar met his gaze, and gave a tiny shrug. “Maybe the human part of it remembers. Maybe it can recollect trust, and affection, and love. Look closely, soldier man, really fucking look at the beast.”
And Zandbar looked. The splice, the huge, quivering, disjointed, amalgamated mass of man and horse and whatever demon had decided to jump into the pot, something so ugly – by human perception – that it could never win any genetic design awards, it was enjoying Yoon’s attention; savouring his touch.
“He commands it,” said Zandbar, in awe.
Yoon turned, and all present were shocked to see the expression on his face. For it was indeed a look of love, and they realised King Yoon was not just some mad king, some playful puppet, some dangerous tyrant; no, he truly was insane, and he was connected in some way to this splice.
“Release the others,” said Yoon, voice thick with emotion.
“I have not cast the charms,” said Chanduquar.
“We do not need them,” said King Yoon, dreamily.
“But… we need the Equiem magick… to protect us, Your Highness. If the… the beasts turn feral…”
“We do not need your magick this time,” said Yoon.
“What did you do to it?”
Yoon smiled. “I entered her mind. And she entered mine. It has been a long time since somebody stroked her face.”
Zandbar looked at Yoon. He felt sick to his stomach. Then slowly he shifted his gaze to the massive, misshapen head, perhaps four times larger than Yoon’s, with the quivering black lips, yellow fangs, pointed equine skull, jacked open mouth, jaw longer on one side than on the other, the green eye, the double-sized red orb, and the horn which came from the top of its skull. It was a creature of nightmare. A demon from the Chaos Halls. A mutated unicorn. A creature of mutilation and death.
“Her?” said Zandbar, from a mouth drier than any salt plain.
“Her name was Christa,” said Yoon, turning back to the splice. “Her husband was a desert warrior. She was his princess. Until Orlana’s mud-orcs captured her, dragged her screaming before the Horse Lady and she, like so many hundred others, were merged with broken horses, twisted into something… else.”
Zandbar wanted to puke. For now, within the splice’s… within her frame he could see distant echoes of humanity. A row of eyelashes. A fingernail, merged with a section of horse flesh. A toe. A woman’s toe.
“By the Seven Sisters, how can one person do this to another?” hissed Zandbar.
Chanduquar looked at him sideways. “I don’t know why you’re so surprised,” he said, voice harsh and slick at the same time. “Your race has been abusing itself for millennia,” and he smiled a knowing smile.
Your race?
Chains started clanking, as Yoon’s instructions were carried out, and along the hall the doors began to roll open on their iron wheels. Snarls and squeals erupted, and Zandbar looked down the massive chamber and realised, in horror, there were not five, not ten, but… twenty prison cells, each housing a splice. He swallowed, and took a step back. But realised too late the guards, in their eagerness to please, or maybe in abject, unthinking terror, had also released the chains…
The splice shambled out from their cells, shaking off, or scrambling from, or scratching free of their shackles and chains. They were a sorry, motley, but terrifying vision to all present. Every man froze, did not breathe, as the twenty or so huge creatures, many drooling pools of thick saliva and pus and blood to the stone flags, shambled out and, very slowly, turned, orientating on the steaming stinking human meat standing helpless before them.
They lumbered forward, and this turned very quickly into leaps as huge muscles, locked away for so long, stretched, and hooves and claws pounded the stone and the beasts launched down the underground prison yard, screaming and growling and spitting forth twisted whinnies… and every man pissed himself, urine running down legs and into boots and forming puddles on the stone flags.
Except for Chanduquar.
He lifted his hand, and closed his eyes, and a calmness flooded the chamber, like a puff of warm summer sunshine rolling over a field of bobbing flowers.
The splice slowed, and then stopped. They orientated on Yoon.
Yoon smiled, eyes drug-wide.
They shuffled into a circle, crooning and snarling, and slowly surrounded him. Yoon was smiling, and crying, and reaching out to touch the snuffling muzzles which stretched for him. His hands ran over their equine snouts, up over corrugated flesh, over tufts of hair, ridges of distended bone, over open wounds weeping blood tears, over muzzles and teeth and uneven jaws.
Zandbar was backing away, and his back touched the wall. He stopped with a jerk, like a puppet that’s had its strings cut. He was absolutely not ashamed of the piss that stained his trews and filled his boots.
Yoon turned, grinning. “They’re beautiful!” he said, and tears were rolling down his cheeks. His dark eyes were filled with them, each tear a tear shed for a lost soul, a soul taken by Orlana and changed into these… nightmares… these pitiful specimens of damaged life.
The creatures ambled around Yoon, and he looked into their eyes, and he laughed out loud. “I can see you,” he said, voice effeminate. “I can see all the way into your souls!” And he turned, fixing Chanduquar with a stare. “They were human, once. And now I am a part of them. And they are a part of me. We have seen deep inside each other’s hearts and minds and souls… and we are a family now. All of us.” He looked around at the splice, with their heaving, disjointed bulks, their heavy, twisted muscles, their battered horse heads, their broken legs and hooves and open wounds. They snorted, and crooned, and wept blood.
“Come,” said Yoon, “follow me…” and he led them down the corridor, and through the portal, and up towards the distant light.
After a few moments, only the terrified soldiers, and Zandbar and Chanduquar, remained.
“What does he intend to do?” asked Zandbar, voice so low it could have been the backdrop hum of the underworld.
“He has tamed the splice,” said Chanduquar.
“How the fuck did he do that?”
The little man raised his eyebrows, a movement that shifted possibly thirty facial piercings. “Maybe he carries some of the blood of Orlana,” he said, and gave a little chuckle. “Maybe he made a pact with the demons of the Chaos Ha
lls!” He slapped his knee, and roared with laughter. Nobody laughed with him.
Zandbar stared up the sloping stone corridor, leading up, leading up to the palace and Vagan beyond.
“I think he seeks to save the city,” said Zandbar.
“From the Great Wyrm? Aye. Aye. Maybe.”
Zandbar looked at the little shaman, then. He watched the man’s tattooed lips squirming, but no sound came out. “Can the splice take on a dragon?” he said.
“There’s only one way to find out.”
Like Wolves to the Slaughter
Dek clenched his short-sword tight in one fist, and glanced back, scowling. Narnok had lifted his axe in both hands, and was spinning the shaft, blades glittering by the light of the sinking sun. Trista carried two knives, although what use they’d be against a dragon was anybody’s guess. Mola stood, hands on hips, great fists clenched, his eyes fixed on the sky as he searched. And finally, Kareem had found himself a spear, and held the shaft in one huge fist. This group, this party of Iron Wolves, looked mean, and hard, and terrifying. But then, they were about to face a Great Wyrm… so it was going to get real bad, real fast.
“Where is it?” said Dek.
“We can’t stand against that,” snapped Trista. “It’s a fucking dragon!”
“Yeah, well it’s come to our fucking city for a fight,” growled Narnok, single eye squinting. “So let’s give it one.”
The fire consuming The Fighting Cocks roared, and another roof timber collapsed. Smoke billowed up into the sky, and sparks danced on the breeze like intoxicated fireflies. The Iron Wolves jogged down the cobbles, and stopped, each one searching the sky.
“Where’s that fucking thing gone?” said Dek, shielding his eyes from smoke.
And then Volak appeared, with a smash of her wings, and careened down a nearby street, wings outstretched, each wing-tip smashing the roof from a house with concussive booms, boom after boom, roof after roof smashed up into the sky with spinning roof joists, torn windows, flying bricks and huge chunks of mortar. The dragon screamed, and fire splashed the cobbles. There were perhaps thirty people, running down the street, and they were picked up by the blast of fire, propelled forward on a jet of energy, and devoured by the flames.
Dek looked down at his sword. “I don’t think it’s enough,” he grumbled.
“We have to try,” hissed Narnok.
“Come on, if we all attack together… aim for the soft underbelly as she goes past,” said Kareem, dark eyes glinting.
“She?” asked Narnok, raising an eyebrow.
“Well, she’s a bitch, ain’t she?” snapped Kareem.
“We’ll soon find out. She’s turned, coming back in to finish off the street!” observed Trista. She looked down at her daggers. Fuck. What I’d do for a spear right now!
Volak sang, voice ringing out as she banked, evening sun turning her black scales crimson. A spear came from a rooftop, and glanced from her side, skittering off. From this distance, it looked like an attack with a toothpick.
“It’s big,” said Kareem, suddenly.
They ran down the street, splitting, crouching in doorways, Dek, Trista and Mola on one side of the street, Narnok and Kareem on the other.
Narnok looked back at Kareem. “Keep a hold of that spear, lad. I think you might bloody need it!”
The Iron Wolves stared down the street. Rubble lay strewn, and timbers lay crisscrossed, flames licking along their lengths.
“She’s coming back,” said Dek.
Volak came in low, wings tucking behind her, dropping like a missile from the sky and into the channel of the battered street. As she entered, so her wing-tips spread, smashing through bricks and stones once more, windows and timbers, with terrible crashes and bangs which echoed throughout the city. She roared, and fire scoured the street, and as she passed, so the Iron Wolves leapt out, weapons raised, leaping to slice and cut and stab. Narnok’s axe-heads missed the dragon’s belly by inches, and he landed again, in a crouch, as that great beast smashed overhead. Dek, lighter and more agile, made a higher jump, and his sword slammed at the dragon, grating against scales with such violence the weapon was torn from his grasp and went skittering along the burning street. Kareem’s spear found its mark, punching upwards, but again, like Dek’s sword, the point grated with rapid-fire cracks along the matt-black scales until the shaft snapped in Kareem’s fingers, and he landed, knees bending, staring at the snapped shaft in his fists. He shook his head. “Fuck me, but those scales are hard.”
“So much for a soft underbelly,” muttered Dek.
“Er… guys?” said Trista.
“Yeah, what?” snapped Dek.
Trista gestured.
Volak had lifted from her attack run, banked in a tight loop, and was coming back.
“I don’t think our prodding went unnoticed,” she said, face turning to thunder.
“Er… back to the doorways!” yelled Dek.
Volak screamed, the sound echoing out across Vagan. Thousands hid in cellars, sprinting down cold stone steps, bolting doors and wondering what the hell they were going to do.
Volak came back fast. Wings pumped. The Iron Wolves peered from doorways, then cringed as Volak suddenly shot out her wings, checking her speed, and plunged down through a building, sending timbers flying, walls crashing down, bricks spinning off in all directions to smash the windows of other buildings and bounce from walls.
A brick bounced off Narnok’s shoulder, and his face went purple with fury.
“That fucking beast,” he snapped, surging up, axe clenched. Kareem grabbed him, and dragged the axeman back.
“Are you insane?” he snarled.
Volak arose from the rubble of the building, shaking her head, flames flickering around her snout. Her tail snapped out, and another wall went crashing to the ground. Dust flowered up like a mushroom, engulfing half the street.
Through the temporary fog Volak strode forward, claws crunching bricks, head weaving from side to side.
“Where are you?” she called. “You little people who want to stab at me with their steel. Where are you hiding?”
There was almost comedy in her voice – as if this were a simple game, and there was no chance of her ever losing.
Volak’s wing lashed out, the spiked tip crashing into a house. With a twitch, she brought the entire front of the building crashing down. Stones rolled across the cobbles. Wood clattered. Volak’s great head was swaying, like a serpent slithering through sand, her black eyes searching the street, the burning timbers, the crushed buildings.
“Where are you?” she said again, and chuckled, and fire flickered around her snout. “Are you in that house?” Flames roared, turning from blue to white, and the whole front went up in a wash of flames, and then the house collapsed backwards, sighing down and in on itself, as stones glowed and floor joists shot up flames. “Or in this one?” Again fire roared, and a pretty, detached house with a turret woven with spider-strands of clinging ivy went up with a sudden roar. Fire screamed and flames danced. For a moment, the house was invisible, trapped within an envelope of fire; and then it collapsed with a sigh, like some huge dying animal.
A woman screamed in the distance. Several dogs barked. Smoke rolled into the sky. The city of Vagan seemed suddenly… deserted. A barren place. A ghost town. Of Mola’s dogs, there was no sign… he’d bid them run. Fighting a dragon was no place for a mutt, even a fighting mutt.
“I think you are playing a game with me, little people,” grinned Volak, and took several strides forward. Her head thrashed left, and she peered through an arched doorway – all that remained of a battered house. “I think we’re going to have some fun, me looking for you, you, who wanted to poke me with your tiny, shiny sticks of metal… and me, with my raging fire, and hateful heart, and message of bloody revenge.” A wall of fire slammed down the street, licking at wood and glass and bricks.
Seven houses down the street, huddled just inside the doorway, Narnok growled, “I’m fucking
bloody sick of this bloody foolishness.” He shifted, and Kareem grabbed him.
“Whoa, Big Man. Where are you going?”
“I ain’t being bloody hunted like no mouse in a house by a big fluffy cat. There ain’t ever been an enemy I haven’t faced and beaten. I’m going to cut that there fucking dragon’s head clean off!”
“Narn!” and Kareem was frantically gesturing to Dek. Hand gestures that said, get the fuck over here! “Narn, you can’t just stride into the street and take something like that head on! Are you crazy?”
“Maybe I am,” grumbled the axeman, and stood, and Kareem grabbed at him, but it was too late. Narnok strode out into the middle of the street, perhaps twenty feet away from the towering dragon, and stared up at the wyrm with his good eye.
“You looking for me, fucker?” he roared, and stood there. There came a clunk as his axe-blades hit the battered, smouldering stones. Narnok grinned, his one good eye glistening, his crisscross of scars gleaming by the reflected light of so many idle fires.
Volak’s head came up, slowly, and her dark eyes fixed on Narnok.
“You have some guts, little man.”
“Not so little,” said Narnok, puffing out his chest and frowning. “Now then, stop fucking about. Why are you here? What do you want? What can we give you, so youse fucks off?”
Volak chuckled, and took a step forward. Bricks pinged and crushed under her claws. Her dark scales were crusted with powder, dust and ash, from so much physical destruction. Even now, dust was drifting and swirling in eddies, and settling against her scales like so much volcanic fallout. This part of Vagan now seemed to be suffering a coastal fog… if only that were the reality.
“You think you can barter with me?” said Volak, eyes gleaming. Flames flickered around her snout. She lowered her head a little, serpentine neck rippling, an act accentuated by the spines along the arch. “Your race is a disease on this world. Once, this was all mine, for ten thousand miles, everything you see, everything you cannot see, all belonged to me, belonged to my royal clan, for I am Volak, Queen of the Wyrms, and I have come to wreak destruction on you… you parasites, you wriggling little maggots, you shit that squirms under the base of my claws. I will see you all burn. I will see you all devoured.”