The Iron Wolves Read online

  Ragorek screamed, leaping forward to hack his own sword into the creature’s spine. Fangs clashed like steel in front of Dek. He blinked and, point first, rammed his own blade up through the creature’s throat. Through the dark maw tunnel and strings of saliva he saw the sword slice up into the mouth, skewering the tongue; with a grunt, he jerked it up further, watching the blade slide further into the brain.

  The creature reared, tearing the sword from Dek’s grip – roaring, squealing – and black blood sprayed from its broken jaws in a great arc. It staggered around, hooves and claws and fangs snapping and stamping. Ragorek darted in, plunging his blade into the beast’s flank. It staggered sideways under the blow. Skellgann came closer and, taking careful aim, fired a quarrel into the monster’s mouth. It gave a deep groan. More men had gathered arms, and rushed in as a group, spears jabbing at the creature which accepted the blows, the wounds, the slices, the impalement, and simply refused to go down. Only when Dek took a long sword from a bearded man with fear bright and brittle in his plate-wide eyes, and with a great swing hacked off one leg, then a second, did the beast finally topple to the ground to lie, panting, wheezing, coughing blood, crazed eyes switching from one man to the next to the next as if remembering and storing their faces for some future retribution. Dek stepped in close and hacked free the other two legs which lay, oozing black blood from jagged stumps, as twisted scarred iron hooves jittered and trembled as if still connected to some crazed puppeteer. The legless body squirmed and shifted, a dark slug, moving slowly around in a circle, and Dek realised everybody was watching him; eyes wide, terror coiled around their limbs and sword arms, horror and disgust holding them in thrall.

  “So, then, I’ll do it, shall I?” snapped Dek, annoyed at the group, and spat and moved in close to those snapping jaws. And the monster’s eyes were watching him, piercing into his own from that great flat head, and they made him shiver as his mouth went dry and fear flooded him. For in that instant, the orbs looked nothing less than human.

  Dek’s sword hacked at the neck, and it took six blows to break through thick sinews of muscle, tendon, ligament and spinal column.

  Only then did the beast lie still, slowly collapsing down, deflating, onto a freezing platter of expanding crimson.

  Ragorek approached, still holding his sword in swollen fingers.

  “Well done, little brother.”

  “I reckon it’s your turn next, you bastard,” snarled Dek.

  “Not tonight,” breathed Weasel, eyes still wide. He held up both hands, palms outwards. “Not now… not after… this.”

  “This changes nothing,” growled Dek, but suddenly his sword clattered to the ground and he dropped to one knee. He cursed, and looked at the deep glossy wound in his shoulder. He struggled to rise. “Damn it, I have a job to finish!” But blood loss left him weak, and he slumped over, onto his side.

  Skellgann rushed over and rolled Dek to his back. “Who’ll help me carry him back to the tavern?” Men rushed forward, and they bore the huge fighter away leaving Weasel and Ragorek standing, weak and limp, staring at the steaming carcass of the slaughtered beast.

  “What is this creature?” breathed Ragorek.

  “It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen,” said Weasel, rubbing his eyes wearily. He smeared stray droplets of blood across his own skin, and then stared at his hands for a moment, confused.

  “I fear the world is changing,” said Ragorek, gently, the tip of his sword touching the icy cobbles with an almost inaudible cling, “when beasts such as this can invade the home lives of good, honest men.”

  “Changing?” Weasel gave a bitter short laugh, like a slap. He poked the massacred beast with the toe of his boot. “This monster is not a product of our mortal realm. A raven-dark wind blows, Rag. I feel it, in my soul. This is just the beginning. I sense it. In my blood, like honey-leaf drugs. In my bones, like rancid marrow. There’ll be nowhere to hide for the likes of us, when this thing starts proper.”

  “You reckon?”

  “I promise you, mate,” said Weasel, and turned, heading back for the tavern, the light, the warmth, the camaraderie and an illusion of sanity which promised to nurse him to a bitter, drunken oblivion.

  FROM THE MUD

  It was death. It was birth. It was fire. It was rape. It was exquisite murder. It was cheerful suicide. It was acid in her veins. Poison in her heart. Sulphur in her soul. A sincere abortion. A child’s coffin. An army of necrotic lovers. A giggling genocide. All of those things, and yet none.

  It ravaged through her, burning, burning, pure hot honey in her veins and eyes and womb, and she screamed but she had no mouth, and she cried but she had no eyes, and she fought, for that was what she knew, that was what she did, that was all she could do. She fought for life, and she fought for death, and she fought to be free of the Furnace, for they had forced her there with powerful magick charms and magick oil, sacrilegious paedophiles, religious zealots and holy bastard whores, with their blood-oil and song-magick, with their sacrifice and genocide and betrayal of the Old Gods, the Bad Gods… the Equiem… she screamed, and fought, and thrashed, and gouged, and spat, and pissed, and every fucking inch was a million fucking years, and every fucking bite another fallen star, every savage slash of claws another decadent miscarriage, every scream vomited from her solid, mercury-filled throat was another worthy charnel house of sliming fish-head corpses waiting to be filled…

  But then.

  Then it was done.

  And the world spun cool.

  She knelt, crouched naked in a ditch, in the mud, slender and white and vulnerable; like a worm; a porcelain worm. The rain slammed down with cold needles that bit her tingling flesh. Slowly, she breathed out, and then in, and then out, savouring the acidic cold air, sulphurous from the Osanda marshes. But it tasted better than any succulent honey, any vintage wine, any ripe erection; for the air was fresh and the air was free.

  She was free.

  She stood, uncurling fast like the strike of an albino cobra. Her head lifted, and she stared up at the cold stars through the rain. A billion miles of hydrogen and frozen, chilled light.

  She lifted her head, and she screamed, a noise so high and long and loud it seemed to split the world, split the heavens, and it sliced through the night and the darkness, disturbing the peace of a nearby mudland village.

  She breathed, then. Breathed deep, and low, her chest rising and falling in a rhythm she thought she had forgotten.

  So, this was life.

  She… remembered.

  Slowly, her hands touched herself, as if in wonder. She gazed down, at her fingers, her toes, her legs, her flat naked pale white belly. She touched her own breasts, cold and white as pared fish flesh. Finally, she gazed at her finger tips.

  “I am alive,” she said, voice deep and musical, and she smiled, and her teeth ground together. She climbed up from the mud pit, slowly, every droplet and splash running from her skin as if her flesh was a charmed distillation and to sully its purity a sacrilegious abomination. She stood on the rim of the pit and watched five riders pick their way towards her from the nearby village. They were woodsmen, she could tell by their garb as they approached warily. The horses snorted and stamped in sudden, raging fear as they smelled her. Hooves clattered on rocks and ululating equine squeals marked the start of an uncontrollable fast-rising panic… but the woman lifted a finger and lowered her head and the horses were instantly calm, immediately still.

  “A clever trick, lady,” said one man. He was large, stocky, made even more so by his bulky oilskins to ward off driving rain. He dropped from the saddle to the mud. “Are you up here screaming on your own, lady, or do you have friends nearby?” He was wary, glancing about. There had been flashes of lightning cracking the sky. And now… this.

  The woman smiled and, quite theatrically, touched her finger to her lips. “Shh,” she said.

  “You wish me to be quiet?” The man snorted laughter and turned to one of his companions. “Hey, Ebram, this w
ild woman of the night wants me to shut my mouth!” He turned back and observed her. She did not move, as if relishing his attention.

  She was tall, well over six feet and, if the truth be told, nearer to seven. She was very slender, each limb a bald yew bough. Her skin was pale white, almost translucent, and devoid of any mark. Her short hair, flat against her skull, was as white as her skin. The woodsman’s eyes travelled up and down her body, and he found himself deeply confused.

  “Lady, we can leave you out here to freeze if you like. Or you can come back down to the village. Dora’s a kind soul, runs the tavern; she’ll find you clothes and blankets, get you out of this rain and chill and give you some hot soup to warm you up.”

  The woman gave a single, slow shake of her head. She lifted her hand and the five men watched, eyes narrowed, until her finger came to rest pointing at Ebram’s horse.

  “What’s the matter with you? Where did you come from? How did you end up out here like this?”

  “I need a mount,” said the woman, voice low, sultry, rich, musical, and her eyes flickered through a million different colours, and she felt the power surge within her, up, through her. Suddenly, the horse screamed and reared up, and Ebram stepped swiftly away, slipping in the mud, falling heavily to the ground with a thud where he lay, stunned, watching with mouth hung open, brain failing to decode what his eyes were witnessing…

  The horse reared, hooves kicking the air, squealing like a baby, screaming like a stuck pig; then it went suddenly rigid, front hooves held high, and its skin seemed to bubble and roll with ripples like molten copper, and there came heavy cracks and its legs thrust out, bent into odd shapes, and a wild wind blew from the storm, and lightning cracked the sky like an egg, and the horse seemed almost to turn inside out, and its skull bloated, expanding unevenly, muzzle elongating and still screaming a single high-pitched note, and its body enlarged, crimson and slick with oozing blood; several of its pumping organs squirmed on the outside of its great, swollen, deformed body. The horse screamed and screamed, and its hooves hit the mud and it stood, panting heavily, nearly twice its original size, one front shoulder lower than the other, its eyes now blood red, its long equine maw twisted and scattered with uneven bent fangs. The deformed horse was a huge, malevolent, threatening creature. It grunted, shifting as if in great pain, then it lowered its jaws towards Ebram and with a quick, economical bite, snapped off his head.

  Curses and shouts rang through the night, and the woman’s long white finger pointed to the other mounts which screamed and reared, skin peeling, bones cracking, heads elongating, maws twisting, and the men were thrown in panic, scrabbling in the mud, then they were up and running as the twisted horses came down on new, bloated hooves with bent shoes and turned, and charged them, and ate them, bodies, clothes, skulls and all.

  Blood lay heavy in hollows. Rain pounded diagonal sheets. A cold wind blew and the slender woman shivered in ecstasy as she moved amidst these five huge, threatening, newborn beasts. Her hand traced lines down their bloodied flanks, and then she leapt easily onto one creature’s back and it reared, and she breathed, and it felt good to be alive; it felt good to be free. It felt good to be back.

  “I can channel the old magick,” she breathed, words drifting and lost in the storm. She smiled. “Interesting.” Her flickering eyes were like fire, like blood, filled with molten magick and overflowing with an ocean of crimson tears for a distant, ancient reckoning; a violent, primeval grudge.

  “Now, it is time to claim my rightful throne,” whispered Orlana, the Changer.

  SUGAR AND SPICE

  Kiki stared at her reflection in the silver-glass mirror. Her reflection stared back with hard uncompromising eyes.

  You are going to die, said that reflection, face twisting, crooked, a mocking smile of bitter ripe irony.

  “No, I’m not. I cannot. I’m still young, strong, a great warrior, a beautiful woman, virile, men lust after me, want to bed me for long, rapturous hours through the night; I’m the captain and master of my own fate, and only when I cast away that belief will the stinking, rotting corpse of death arrive on his pale horse of skull-meat and squirming maggots and sever my links to this pointless, pathetic existence.”

  There came a long pause, and the reflection released a peal of beautiful, tinkling laughter. It was like spring petals falling. Moonlight dancing through crystal. No, she said, eyes the colour of iron fixing on her her as her lips her own damned lips twisted into a savage snarl of disgust. You’re dying, Kiki; you have a growth inside you, you know this is true; you heard the doctors’ low panicked voices even through your pain, even through the searing agony of the hot knife blade. One said it was too close to your heart and to cut it free would be to cut your heart in two. So the surgeon left it there, and not all the gold in Vagandrak can change the fact. You are going to die, bitch. And I’m on the other side of this mirror, waiting for you to arrive.

  “What do you want from me, Suza?”

  I want you. I want you here. I want you beside me. Now!

  “And where exactly are you, sister of mine?”

  Silence. Always silence. And that smile, crooked, disjointed, a smile of mockery and condescension. Then the image shimmered and the doppelgänger vanished to leave a blink and Kiki’s own face and naked upper body reflected.

  “Mmmm?” came a sound from behind, from the bed, murmured from betwixt silk sheets still sprinkled with fine honeyed wine and an artistic scattering of rose petals. “Come back to bed, my sweet. It’s warm here. You know it is.”

  “In a minute.”

  “Come back to me, gorgeous thing. I’m waiting for you. You know I am.”

  “I told you. In a minute.” There was iron in her voice; the same iron that dominated the colour of her eyes.

  Kiki observed herself again. Long brown hair, with just a hint of silver painting a few strands bright. She was tall, elegant, but powerful with it. Creases lined her eyes, but she could ease them free with thick creams bought from the apothecary. What gave away her real age, and the wealth (horror?) of her experiences, was the pain; deep inside her eyes, like a second dark pupil of contained and casket-locked memories. Even to herself, those iron orbs looked old. Older than the world. Older than death. But then, hadn’t it always been that way?

  “Come back to bed, my sweet elixir of eternal pleasure.” Soft hands touched her bare shoulders, and Kiki tensed. Just for a moment. Before relaxing under his gentle outward strokes. She released a slow breath, for her eye had caught the ornamental dagger on the cluttered, polished table before the mirror, no doubt for opening gilt-edged envelopes of invitation to some rich bastard’s decadent wife-swapping party. Her eye had caught the dagger, and reflex alone nearly spun her, plunging the blade into the man’s eye socket.

  Why so highly strung? she chided herself. And then smiled, breathing deeply.

  Always the killer, mocked her sister within the cage of her own skull.

  “OK, Lars. You win. I’ll come back to bed.” She turned and stood, and he stood with her. He stepped in close, pressing his naked body to hers, and she let him kiss her again, tenderly, slowly.

  Yeah. What does this slimy bastard really want?

  Go to Hell.

  They kissed, their passion igniting, and she felt him growing aroused and smiled inside the kiss. “Come on.” She took his hand and led him to the tangled sheets. They were still warm and they slid into their haven, holding one other, Lars stroking her arm, kissing her, touching her, and she allowed him to warm her, allowed him to take her, and she moaned as she rolled onto her back, with him atop, entering her, and they built from a slow union of gentle rhythm to a crescendo of desperation, sweating, groaning, clawing the sheets and pillows and one another’s flesh until the world no longer mattered and she screamed and growled and it was all in the blink of explosion…

  Kiki lay on her back, eyes closed, listening to her own panting. His hand idly traced patterns across her skin, and worked its way to her chest and the n
ine inch scar she knew lay there like a raw blister. Healed, but raw inside her head. Like branded flesh. Like the cancer had marked her prior to taking her.

  “Tell me again how you got this, my gorgeous.”

  “I never told you.”

  “Yes. I forgot. The beautiful lady is so secretive.” He smiled, but not much.

  “Hey, you chased me, Lars. Just because I come to your perfume-stinking bed, doesn’t mean I have to divulge my life story now, does it?”

  “Perfume sti… that is quite horribly offensive, my little sweetmeat; but then, your amazing beauty diverts my anger and allows you to be so abrasive and curt, wounding my heart with your silver barbs of honey-poison.”

  Kiki laughed, and opened her eyes, propping herself up on one elbow. “Your fine talk might work with the noble rich ladies of Rokroth, my dear Lars; but I’d wager they’re simple souls. Why else would they be condemned to this backwater shit-hole?”

  “Rokroth? A…” he savoured the word as he would a bitter wine, “shit-hole?”

  Kiki laughed again, a sound she’d not heard herself produce for far too long. Lars looked wounded. Like a slapped puppy. “Sorry.” She became more gentle. “I do not mean to mock. Let us be frank, good sir: Rokroth lies beside the Rokroth Marshes – hardly renowned across Vagandrak for its fine air and sophisticated culture. Wasn’t it once used as an area of banishment by the Old Kings?”

  Lars seemed to deflate. “I apologise. As you well know, I am heir to the Lordship of Rokroth. It… pains me to hear it belittled. But what you say is true. Sometimes, the marshes do indeed pollute the air with, shall we say, some interesting odours.”

  Kiki play-thumped him on the chest. “That’s what I like to see! Nobility with a sense of humour.”

  “Hardly nobility,” said Lars, blushing a little.

  “Are you blushing?”