by Andy Remic
Narnok hacked his axe down, crashing through a sword-thrust and smashing the clavicle of the charging warrior. As the man went down, so Narnok followed, axe swinging overhead to cleave his skull in two straight down the centre. A warrior crashed into him, but literally bounced off the large man and Narnok grinned through his mask of scars. “Surprised, fucker?”
The chamber became a sudden, whirling blur of swords and charges, of clashing steel and chaos. As ever, Trista and Prince Zastarte fought as a team, practically back to back, blades licking out, piercing, stabbing, deflecting blows intended for one another. In battle they were a team, despite their mutual loathing. They were a fighting unit of unsurpassed skill.
Dek fought with mechanical savagery and no remorse. A veteran of the fighting pits, he was used to long duels with fists, helves or blade, and this was no different. He did not think: there are twenty warriors ranged against us. He simply considered: how long will it take to kill the twenty warriors ranged against us? He fought with fists and boots and head as much as his blade, and he was a savage opponent. Three pale-skinned warriors charged him, and he ducked a vertical slice intended to remove his head, dropped to one knee, thrust his sword tip into a groin slicing the femoral artery with a sudden gush of… white blood. He gasped, but twitched right as a blade tried to skewer his face, and rammed his left fist into the man’s testicles, feeling them compress under the weight and power of his hefty blow. The warrior went down squirming and Dek palmed a long knife from his left boot with the same hand and hammered the weapon down into the man’s eye, as he parried a sword thrust with his blade, dropping his sword suddenly to slash at his attacker’s legs. The blade went in behind a knee guard, cutting through skin and twisting, popping the kneecap open. White blood oozed free. It was like gutting a fish. The man screamed, grabbing at Dek’s sword, but the long dagger punched out, through the man’s screaming mouth, silencing him.
Kiki fought with elegance: a dancer, a sword in each hand, whirling and spinning. She felled one warrior with a backhand cut, landed lightly, twisted to the left as a straight thrust came past her, then elbowed the attacker in the face. Blood gushed from his nose like cream, but he did not scream. His boot lashed out, hooking Kiki’s leg and pulling back. She hit the ground on her back with air exploding from her lungs, then rolled fast as his blade smashed down, clanging from stone. He leapt at her head, both boots stomping as she rolled again, and Kiki deflected a series of hard, fast blows, each one jarring her arm, each one a micro second slower than the last, as showers of sparks rained down on her. And she felt it. A weakening. This warrior was good. No. He was exceptional. Their blades clashed again, but Kiki was struggling and he knew it; he had her. She could see his crimson eyes gleaming, teeth bared, white blood glistening on his chin from his crooked nose. His blade caught her shoulder, piercing flesh, and she gasped, and growled, and felt an awesome, massive power well up within her… then Dek was there, looming from behind, blade cutting out to remove the warrior’s head. The man’s cadaver toppled, neck stump gushing blood, and Dek hauled her to her feet. He grinned at her.
“Thanks,” she breathed, as they spun, back to back, and eyed the remaining enemy warriors.
Narnok faced off against a white-skinned fighter, who was spinning his sword with expert proficiency, a whirl of steel, feinting left and right and watching with care as Narnok’s axe blades shifted in anticipation of attack. Studying him. Then he leapt forward, and Narnok batted away the blade and jabbed the butterfly tips towards the man’s eyes, but he was too fast, taking a step back, sword reversing, parallel to his forearm as he lunged, tried a horizontal slash. Again, Narnok’s axe batted the blade up this time, his boot coming up to front-kick the warrior in the chest, knocking him back. With a sudden scream, Yoon leapt on Narnok’s back, looping the leash around the big man’s throat. The weight carried Narnok crashing and stumbling back, grunting as Yoon’s fingers raked at his eyes then pulled tighter on the stranglehold. The enemy swordsman leapt to the attack, and Narnok barely deflected the mad slashing blade as he staggered under the weight of his king attempting strangulation. “You bastard!” he choked, and slammed his head back but Yoon was waiting for it and twisted his own head aside. The swordsman came on again, and with a mighty effort Narnok’s butterfly blades described a glittering figure of eight keeping the warrior at bay. Again and again he tried to slam his head back, but Yoon was a wily bastard. What he needed to do was drop his axe, whirl and throttle the king, but the warrior before him smashed that possibility into horse shit and the ghost of a smile on the man’s lips infuriated Narnok beyond belief. He was turning purple, neck bulging, veins standing out like cables as the rope he’d used to tame Yoon became his garrotte. Suddenly, Trista was there behind the enemy warrior, and her sword hacked down diagonally, cutting into his neck. He spun, as white blood pumped out, and his sword licked out, but Trista stepped back, knocking the blade aside before ramming her own weapon through his mouth. Her eyes met with Narnok’s for a second, then the big axeman threw down his axe, reached behind himself, and slammed both palms against Yoon’s head. The king howled, dropping from Narnok’s back, and Narnok turned, pulling the rope free from about his throat, his eyes murderous. He lurched forward, fist cracking into Yoon’s face: two blows, then three, and the king went down with a broken nose and split eye, unconscious.
Narnok looked around. The fighting had stopped.
They’d killed them all. Corpses littered the stone floor of the abandoned prison.
“Is everybody all right?” said Kiki, hand to her shoulder where blood was seeping out. Zastarte twirled his sword.
“I am, my sweet little darling.”
“I’m not fucking all right!” growled Narnok, still flushed red, huge rope burns circling his throat. He grabbed up his axe. He turned, and advanced on Yoon, intention obvious.
“No!” snapped Kiki.
“Backstabbing motherfucker has it coming,” said Narnok, hefting the weapon. His single eye met Kiki’s gaze and she gave a little shake of her head.
“Not here. Not like this.”
“He has it coming!”
“And he will be punished. But we might need him. So not yet. And that’s an order, soldier.”
The Iron Wolves checked themselves over, and Dek moved through the dead warriors with his dagger, making sure none were faking it. Then, he circled the huge chamber, sword at the ready, poking his nose into the alcoves from which the warriors had emerged. He shouted back from the far end, voice reverberating hollow and metallic, “It’s all clear.”
“I have a question,” said Narnok. He’d been busy tying the unconscious Yoon up good and tight, and dragging him away from the pile of corpses.
“Huh?” said Kiki. She’d removed her jerkin and shirt, wincing at the shoulder wound. It wasn’t too deep and didn’t affect the mobility of her shoulder or arm; but it still stung like a scorpion strike.
“You’ll need stitches in that.”
“Yeah. Later. When we stop.” She rummaged in her pack, pulling free a small jar. In it sat a stinking yellow paste, and, using her index finger, she applied it to the wound. “What’s bothering you, axeman?”
“Their blood. It’s white. What the hell is that all about?”
“I saw something similar, once before. Far to the north, near the White Lion Mountains. I was hitched up with a mercenary squad; we found a man crucified on a lightning blasted oak. Tied up he was, and they’d hammered nine-inch nails through his wrists and ankles, and branded his forehead with some kind of religious symbol. He’d bled white. We thought it was candle wax at first, some part of a strange, superstitious ritual, but one of the lads took a knife out, cut open the dead man’s calf muscle. Fresh dead he was, not even hard yet. He oozed white blood. We all slept with one eye open that night.”
“Well, I ain’t ever seen anything like it,” said Narnok. “It ain’t natural, it ain’t.”
“They’re a race of creatures,” said Trista, settling her pa
ck on her back. “They look human, like us; but they’re not.”
“What are they, then?”
Trista shrugged. “Damned if I know. But I know they’re hard to kill. We did well.”
“That’s cos we’re the Iron Wolves,” grinned Narnok lop-sidedly. Then he glanced at Trista. “Thanks for that. Back then. With Yoon.”
She gave a nod. “Not a problem, axeman.”
“If I were prettier, I’d give you a kiss.”
“Yeah. Well, don’t get too many ideas. Most men who kiss me seem to end up dead.”
“I remember,” said Narnok, voice suddenly sober. “Nothing like seeing an old soldier friend with a knife in his spine to remind me what a terrible, deadly black widow you really are.” He smiled. “Still, lass. Glad you’re on my side.” He gave a cough. “Let’s head up there, check out the cells. I reckon we’ll find whatever Yoon is hiding pretty easy.”
“Let’s see,” said Kiki. “You lead the way.”
The stairs were steep, made of iron grilles, and Narnok led with Kiki and Dek close behind with weapons drawn and ready. Zastarte and Trista stayed behind to guard the entrance to the prison. As Narnok so eloquently put it, “I don’t like no fucking back-entrance surprises.”
You’re not going to like this, whispered the ghost of Suza in Kiki’s mind. Kiki’s mouth felt suddenly sour and her mind spun a little. She took deep breaths and gripped the rusted handrail tight. It felt suddenly insubstantial; as if she grasped at smoke rings and felt herself tumbling, gazing down a long dark shaft made of black glass with perfectly smooth sides leading deep into an eternity well.
Go on. Fall, bitch. Die, bitch. You’ll enjoy it.
And then Dek was there, iron grip on her bicep, clasping her tight. She turned, and looked into his questioning eyes, and smiled.
“I’m fine. Honestly. I’m well.”
“Keep it together, Keeks. Now’s not the time to be craving the honey-leaf.”
She gave a curt nod, and carried on up the iron steps. Suza nestled in the back of her mind like a small black toad on a corrupt and poisoned lily-pad. Squatting. Silent. Watching. Watching.
They reached the top of the ornate iron stairs and stood on the high walkway. Narnok glanced down. Zastarte gave him a thumbs-up sign. Zastarte was grinning. This was positively his type of desecrated dungeon tomb; Narnok snarled something crude in a different language.
“I’m not liking this,” said Kiki, slowly, and twirled one of her swords thoughtfully. “There could be a hundred soldiers up here; or an army of the insane.”
“No,” Dek shook his head, and rubbed his beard. “Yoon’s hiding something. Protecting something. It’s not men. And it can’t be treasure, despite the bastard squandering the country’s wealth on his Tower of the Moon horse shit. He still has enough gold in his harems to sink a war trireme. Come on. Time to search.”
The cold stale air, with its metallic stink and hint of old oil, became infused with another aroma. Something bad. Decay. Corruption. They wrinkled their noses in distaste; except Dek, whose nose had been broken so many times in the Red Thumb Fighting Pits aroma was simply something that happened to other people.
Narnok moved to the first cell grate, which was half open. He peered into a narrow, confined space. There was an old wooden bed pallet, rotten, black and broken; an iron pot; and various sections of angular metal, rusted through: chunks of anomalous iron, littering the floor as if scattered like broken dice. He looked back. “Odd.”
They moved down the row of cells, the walkway stretching off into the gloom. Each had an open grate, black, rusted; some closed and locked solid, some open allowing entry – not that they wanted to investigate. This place had an oppressive atmosphere, dark and brooding; home of many an evil past action.
“How are you doing up there?” Zastarte’s voice boomed through the large space: metallic, and sounding positively chirpy.
“I swear,” muttered Narnok, “it’s like the woman-torturing bastard has just come home.” Then he shouted, “Nothing of worth!”
They continued, checking down the long row of dark cells, peering into centuries-old spaces, many filled with strange angular chunks of rusted iron. Kiki stepped forward into one space, and hefted an almost triangular shape. As she held it, she felt something move inside the iron object, and there was a tiny click. She dropped it with a thunk and stepped hurriedly away.
“What was that?” said Dek.
“I don’t know. But it was mechanical, and I’m not going to stand here and let it chop off my hands. Torture instruments, is what I’m thinking. Which makes this place even more savage than I first thought. Is that what Yoon’s been doing down here in secret? Something cruel and illegal that would turn the entire population of Vagandrak – finally and openly – against him, resulting in a forced and necessary abdication?”
“Let’s carry on,” said Dek, grimly, and they moved to the next set of iron stairs.
These were even more degraded, and shook alarmingly, flakes of rust cascading down as the three Iron Wolves ascended, one by one, to the second level. Narnok caused the worst scare, for the big axeman was no effete showman like Zastarte, and he was pale and sweating when he reached the top. He peered over the ornate barrier, taking care not to lean too hard on the old metal.
“That’s a big drop for a big man like me.”
“Come on,” said Dek. “There’s a lot of cells and I’m starting to feel an urgent need to get out of this place. I wouldn’t ever say I’m a claustrophobic man, but this place has a certain effect on a person. Like it’s supposed to, I suppose.”
One by one they cleared the cells, finding nothing but old rotten wood, rusting implements and more of the strange, randomly shaped chunks of iron. At the end of the row of seventy or so chambers, they climbed the third set of shaking, rust-infected stairs to the third level. Half-way down this, Kiki started to get a sinking feeling in her heart. Were they being dicks? Maybe Yoon hadn’t been using this place for secret torture sessions, or to horde some terrible machine he wanted to keep secret from his generals and the politicians of Vagandrak. Doubt wormed into Kiki’s mind, into her breast, and she licked her lips, ran her hand through her bobbed, brown hair. Shit. Shit.
They climbed to the uppermost level, Narnok now lagging behind. He was still pale, clammy, and Kiki turned. “Go back down, Big Man.”
“Eh? What? Why?”
“Some people are fine with heights. But this is…” she peered over the barrier, taking care not to touch its rusting swirls and curves, “a long way up on unsteady walkways that could collapse at any second. You’re the heaviest of the three of us. And…”
“Yeah?” he snarled, teeth bared, clutching his axe tight to his chest as if the great twin-bladed weapon of dark iron could protect him from a long fall onto a hard stone floor.
“Some people,” she said, gently, “deal much better with heights than others.”
“I fought mud-orcs on the high edge ridges in the Mountains of Skarandos. I skewered an attacking mangy lion on a narrow path four thousand feet up in the White Lion Mountains, letting it charge onto my spear then casting it down onto the steep icy slopes where it disappeared into mist and stone. I stood watch in the ice on the high towers of Vagan Fortress, with no guard rails and only slippery black stone under my boots waiting to piss me over the edge. Don’t try and say I’m scared of heights, Kiki, my dear.”
She looked at the terror in his eyes, and gave a single nod. “I was just wondering if Yoon had awoken. Maybe your knots weren’t so good. Maybe, even now, the slimy little fucker is crawling towards a unworthy escape, wriggling his way to freedom; then he can gather his elite soldiers and hunt us down like a, aha, a pack of wolves.”
Narnok scratched his chin. “You think so?”
“I think one of us should go and check.”
There was a moment of silence. Down in the vast chamber, there came a scraping sound. Narnok looked into Kiki’s eyes.
“I can go and che
ck, if you like.” He gave a deep cough. “As you say. Yoon’s a wily bastard. Could be he’s on the move.”
“You go,” said Kiki. “I doubt there’s anything up here anyway. We’ll check these last cells and follow you down. Only be a couple of minutes.”
“Yes, yes,” said Narnok gruffly, and moved carefully back to the shaking stairs, slowly, hands spreading out a little as if he might drop to his knees at any moment. As he began the descent, he glanced back at Kiki and gave a little smile of thanks. And then he was gone. And Kiki and Dek were alone.
“Just me and you,” said Dek, and stepped a little closer. Kiki shivered, and looked up into his brutal face, with its minor scars, buckled nose and bad tattoos. Their eyes met, and they shared a moment, searching one another. There was history there. So much history. Battle, and war. Loving, and hate. Lying on blankets under a winter moon, naked, entwined, kissing, his tongue on her breasts, his gentle questing hand sliding between her squirming wet thighs…
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No!” She grabbed his arm. Relaxed her grip a little. Softened. Smiled. “Not now. Now, we do this. Afterwards…”
“Yes?” A gentility that was almost alien for the large tattooed pit-fighter.
“Afterwards, we can talk.”
“Oh?”
“And then we can fuck.”
He bared his teeth, a cross between a smile and a grimace. “You lead the way, then, Captain. I’ll be right behind you.”