Stripping herself of clothing, Haleesa gazed down at her naked limbs. She was slim, supple, beautiful. Her long legs were straight and powerful, her hips wide and good for childbirth. She felt her hair – rich and luxuriant, reaching below the nape of her neck. It had returned to its full, deep redness.
She ran to the door of the cabin, and stood naked under the falling snow.
The cold did not touch her.
“It is a gift I do not want!” she screamed at the forest. “I do not want it!”
Her echoes were dulled by the snow, and Haleesa fell to her knees, weeping into her hands.
The old man came to her.
“You can make an offer?”
“Yes.”
“You can cure her?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t know what to do. I am… lost.”
“I know.”
Haleesa stared at the man, with his finery and his uniform, with his haughty regal features, with his inherent nobility and his promise of honour and good things to come. She allowed hope to burn a little candle in her soul. And she wondered if she was a fool.
“She killed her mother. Her father. Her sister.”
“I know this, also.”
“But you can still help her?”
“I know of her deformities. I also know of her… great power. I believe I can channel her. I believe I can focus her. I believe I can make her good.”
“And you think I fucking believe you?” hissed Haleesa suddenly, glaring at the middle-aged man. “You think I’d entrust a wounded human being into your charge? A child so powerful you could use her for very great evil?”
The man seemed to consider this. “Yes,” he said. “I think you would.”
“Why?”
“You have had enough of hiding the lie. What I can do… it is magick. Real magick, not petty illusion. I can heal her, Leesa. Heal the child. Make her whole again. Make her pure again. Make her
care
again.”
“You are sure of this?” She dared to believe.
“I swear to you. By all the gods. By the Seven Sisters. By the Powers of the Equiem. By the twisted energies of the old gods: the bad gods, the twisted gods.”
“Then do so. With my blessing. But protect her. Nurture her. Love her.”
He smiled, and bowed his head. He reached out, and touched Haleesa’s old woman’s young flesh. He stroked her cheek, and stared into her eyes, and she found that she believed him.
“I will do so,” said General Dalgoran. “You can trust in me.”
THE BOX
The cave was surreal. Dark and wondrous, a volcanic space, a forced pressure chamber of igneous creation, organic construction, chaotic revelation. Dropping down from a high platform, Kiki stood for a moment just enjoying the experience. She’d never experienced anything quite like it.
“Amazing,” said Dek, coming up beside her.
“So you like this sort of shit?” She stared at him, head cocked to one side. “I thought you’d be more interested in, you know, cock-fighting, and bear-baiting, that type of machismo horse shit. Not some fucking rock formations which look kind of nice.” She smiled to take the sting out of her words.
“I love the thought; the concept. Volcanic insanity. All that hot, pressurised, molten rock forcing itself through the ground. I kind of empathise. That’s how my mind feels just before a fight.”
They moved on, emerging onto another ledge, which wound around the massive cavern containing the iron box; containing the hidden, ancient prison belonging to King Yoon. And, after what seemed like hours, they dropped to the floor and approached the sheer, vast wall of iron. It was a damn sight bigger up close. Vast, towering, mammoth. It made the Iron Wolves look up; and up, and up, straining their necks.
Kiki glanced back, and both Narnok and Dek gave her a nod.
They unsheathed swords, and Trista and Zastarte followed suit, producing their own weapons.
Kiki stepped forward, glanced up once more at the sheer iron wall, then inserted a key into the lock. Then she tried another. And another. On the seventh attempt, there came a deep, heavy
click,
and a sound like a pendulum swinging somewhere far above, deep within the heart of this huge metal box.
“It would appear we are in,” said Kiki.
Narnok tugged Yoon’s lead. “Come on, you back-stabbing mad-arse bastard. Let’s see what you’re hiding.”
The door swung open, and the Iron Wolves were greeted by a short corridor with blank iron walls. They stepped in, moved down to a black iron gate which swung open easily under Kiki’s touch.
They were in a vast chamber, the ceiling soaring off high above. It was lined with cells on four levels with balconies, opening out to, and overlooking, a central space. The whole place was filled with rust and shadows. Along the walls tiny orange globes lit the space, but not enough to banish demons and shadows. Each level’s balcony was lined with ornate iron barriers, presumably to stop prisoners falling to their deaths. Rust clung to each surface like a new lover.
Narnok whistled, single eye lifting, scanning the high walls around the exterior of the huge space. “There must be, what? Five hundred cells? This is some bloody prison, I’ll give you that, Yoon.”
“It is an unused unit,” said Yoon, quietly.
“Yeah, right,” snapped Kiki.
They moved forward, and stopped suddenly as soldiers drifted from the edges of the huge chamber, like ghosts emerging from a darkened tomb. They walked with elegance; each man was tall, bearing pale white skin and dark crimson eyes. Each man was startlingly similar to his comrade, sporting long white hair dropping to shoulders, and each of a similar slim, athletic build, wearing the same dark clothing, the same black armour, archaic and inlaid with silver runes.
Kiki lifted her sword, eyes scanning left and right; then spinning slowly on her heel as she realised these warriors had also emerged from behind, stepping free of hidden alcoves in the darkness. There were twenty of them, at Kiki’s count. They moved forward until they formed a circle around the Iron Wolves.
“Who’s your leader?” she snapped. “Show yourself.”
“We have no leader,” said one man, stepping forward, “but I will act as our Voice. You are intruders here. You must leave this place.”
“Or else what, lad?” growled Narnok, hefting his double-bladed axe with obvious threat; a promise of oblivion.
“We will force you to leave,” said the delicate, pale-faced warrior, and drew his sword with a sibilant hiss. The weapon was long, black and etched with silver runes that glittered. The blade was nicked in several places hinting at experience in battle. And the fact the warrior was not cowed by the demon-like visage of Narnok, with his one missing eye and criss-cross of terrible scars, showed either very great bravery, or a considerable amount of stupidity.
“We have your king,” said Kiki, and smiled slowly. Narnok gave a tug on the leash and Yoon stumbled forward, where he dropped to his knees. Then his head came up, and his dark eyes were gleaming like the oil in his dark curls.
“Don’t listen to them,” snarled Yoon, voice ringing out “kill them all!”, before Narnok back-handed him across the mouth, smashing the king aside where he lay, stunned like a clubbed fish on the cold smooth stone.
Kiki stared around her at the twenty armed warriors. Their faces were impassive, even at this mistreatment of the king.
Their king?
She gave a little internal shrug. She licked her lips. “Let me explain how this can play out. This bastard,” she gestured, “is hiding something here. All we want to do is have a little look around. Then we’ll be on our way.”
The
Voice
of the pale-skinned soldiers gave a narrow-lipped smile. “We cannot let you explore this place, Kiki of the Iron Wolves. Take my word for it, there is nothing – nothing at all – of interest to you here. This old prison is an empty shell. It contains no surprises.”
“We
are
going to look around, you fuckers,” growled Narnok, and Kiki flashed him an annoyed glance.
“I would like to avoid bloodshed,” she said, smiling at the man. “
Your
bloodshed. Now stand down your men.”
“I will not.”
“So be it,” said Kiki, and advanced.
The twenty warriors drew blades, and without cries, without expression, in complete silence, they suddenly attacked. The Iron Wolves kicked apart, forming a tight circle within the enemy circle, each covering the other’s backs. The first warrior reached Kiki, sword slamming down; her own blade parried with a shower of sparks and she dropped her shoulder, punching him in the groin; then an uppercut to the chin; she deflected the blade of a second soldier and ploughed her sword through the first’s eye. The blade lodged for a moment in the eye socket as he screamed, a sudden loud wail that broke the stillness of the ancient iron prison, but Kiki twisted her wrist and the blade unhooked from bone and withdrew, mashed brains painting the iron tip.
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.