Free The Iron Wolves by Andy Remic

rose in sudden combustion. Now, every merchant and spice lord rushed for the back of the Guild Hall only to discover, as had their comrades, that they had been trapped. Shouts rang out and several men ran, leaping through the flames which ignited their clothing and perfume and powdered wigs as easily as if they’d been soaked in oil themselves. Lord Rokroth sprinted forward, leaping through the roaring fire and screaming as he did so. He landed, burning, coat on fire and sabre raised, only to be met by Dokta.
    “Get back in there and burn,” Dokta snarled, his boot coming up as he front-kicked Lord Rokroth in the chest. Rokroth grunted and was sent sprawling back into the flames where he screamed and screamed and quickly sank, crumpling, into a foetal position.
    The tapestries and wood panelling were roaring now, the air hot and filled with smoke and ash. The ancient, six hundred year-old oak beams had caught like kindling thanks to the oil and, satisfied, the King’s Guard backed from the Guild Hall as a hundred pleading screams, cries for help, and promises of wealth followed them.
    Captain Dokta strode down the magnificent steps, breathing deeply on crisp, iced air. He gave a narrow smile which had nothing to do with humour, and sheathed his sword. Several small groups of people had gathered, but Dokta bellowed, “Move on! There’s nothing to see here!” as behind him the screams continued. For a moment Dokta was transported back to the slaughterhouse he had worked in as a youth: the pigs, in narrow channelled rows, being dragged forward one by one on lengths of rope, and the screaming, the pigs screaming, screaming like children as he stood at the head of the tunnel, bloodied knife in one hand, rope in the other and a grim focused determination glittering in his eyes…
    “Are you well, sir?”
    “Yes, Glader. Secure the perimeter. Make sure nobody gets in. Or more importantly, out. Any resistance from civilians, kill them. We’ll give it twenty minutes, then form a line bringing water from the river. Pass around the word.”
    “Yes, sir. And… can I just say something, sir?”
    “Of course, Glader.”
    The man’s eyes were shining, face almost… euphoric.
    “I just wanted to say, it’s fabulous to finally work with you, Captain Dokta.”
     

THE SEER
    General Dalgoran stood on the white marble steps of his sprawling, white-walled villa, back ramrod straight, short grey hair neatly combed in place, his large frame proud and his bearing still that of a military man despite this, the first day of his seventy-first year.
    “Cigar, old man?” said General Jagged, stepping out into the crisp cold air beside Dalgoran, and Dalgoran gave a chuckle.
    “Less of the old man, you bloody slack old goat. I’m a damn month younger than you!”
    “And yet you look so much older,” grinned Jagged, passing over a thick cigar and resting his hand on the hilt of his sword. General Jagged was completely bald, a short, squat, powerful man, brown face heavily creased, like tanned and wrinkled antique leather from years of outdoor soldiering. He wore a short goatee beard, white as the purest snow. Despite his age, he still carried himself well. They both did.
    Dalgoran lit the cigar, and thick blue plumes engulfed him for a moment. “Ahh. But that’s good. Bad for my chest, you understand, but on a special occasion like this, I’m sure one won’t kill me. Not yet, anyway.” He gazed off, towards the distant White Lion Mountains, silhouetted and vast and noble in the fast approaching gloom. They towered over the Skell Forest to the northeast and, if one looked carefully, one could make out the distant, high towers in the city of Kantarok.
    “How’s your head, Jagged?”
    “Nothing wrong with my head. What the bloody hell does that mean?”
    “I thought, you know, with the promise of snow in the air, the biting chill… your lack of hair…”
    “Pah!”
    “That’s a damn cold wind blowing from the White