The Iron Wolves Read online

  “You do abuse me so,” said Lars. “Although I confess, if you hadn’t saved me from that uncouth tavern brawl, I might not be here to suffer such abuse; so for that, I am eternally grateful.”

  “Yeah. You keep showing me.”

  “And will continue to do so, as long as you’ll grace my table, my company and my bed.”

  “Mmm,” murmured Kiki, closing her eyes and relaxing back. She had to admit, it was fun – for a while – to enjoy the pleasures of Lars’ modest wealth. But there was much he did not know about her. So much…

  “I have a question,” said Lars, and she opened her eyes again, staring up into his. They were wide and pleading. She liked that. She was in control, and they both knew it.

  “It’s not about my name again, is it?”

  “No, although I confess it concerns me I do not yet know your true identity, and it concerns me deeply you’ve come to my bed for two weeks now, on seven occasions, and I still cannot introduce you to my friends.”

  “I do not wish to meet your friends.”

  “But I want you to meet them. My father is holding a ball, no, wait, I can see your face change… hear me out, please. The ball will be an extravagant affair at Rokroth Hall, in honour of King Yoon himself! It has been rumoured the King may possibly be in attendance, and this has been the talk of many weeks throughout Rokroth Council. I would be honoured if you would accompany me to the ball.” His words accelerated as he saw her face drop. “No, no, wait, it’s not what you think, and if money is a problem for you then I would be more than happy to buy you a most exquisite ball gown, of fine silk. There are some incredible dressmakers in Rokroth, we could go shopping together, for shoes, and some jewellery, it would be fun–”

  “No.”

  “But–”

  “No.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I never made you any promises, Lars. You pursued me, remember, for weeks. I was just about getting ready to stick a knife in your guts when you went and got into that stupid brawl with the eel men. Three of them. And you, there, with your perfume and your little toad-sticker. They would have hacked off your limbs and thrown you in the swamp!”

  “I am expert with foil, sabre and épée.” Lars looked quite wounded. “I would have bested them, I am sure.”

  “Yeah, in your dreams, nobleman. This is the real world we’re talking about now; a world where you get stabbed in the back and left in an alley to rot after they’ve cleaned out your pockets and raped your wife.”

  Lars was silent.

  “Sorry,” said Kiki. She gave a narrow smile. “Sometimes I get carried away.”

  “I know, Kiki. I understand.”

  She stared at him. Humour drained from her face like the last dregs from a poison bottle, and with the intense frown she now offered Lars, colour drained from his.

  “You know my name,” she said, and her voice was very low, a dangerous growl, and even though the words were not threatening, not threatening in the slightest, Lars felt a sudden and very great presence of danger. Not some tavern brawl. This was life and death. Instant. Sudden. Predator taking victim.

  “You spoke it. In your sleep. You said you were Kiki. And that means you are…” He paused, and looked at her. He swallowed, his throat bobbing. “Er.”

  “Go on,” she said. Still, she had not moved.

  “You are one of the Iron Wolves,” he whispered, throat husky.

  “Which one?”

  “The leader,” he said. He swallowed again. His eyes shone. “Look. Kiki. Honestly. This is not a problem for me. I know you’re a wanted woman, but…”

  “Go on.”

  “Stop! Stop being like this. You can trust me. Just because I’m some rich dandy who enjoys wine, perfumery and lustful couplings with beautiful women, doesn’t mean I’m in the King’s pocket!”

  “But you said so yourself. King Yoon may be attending the ball thrown by your father at Rokroth Hall. Why would you invite me? You knew my name before you made the offer. And you’re not moving, which can only mean one thing. You have a blade beneath the sheets.”

  She felt the cold press of steel against her ribs. Gentle, but nicking slightly. A droplet of blood rolled down her flank.

  She smiled.

  “IN HERE!” Lars bellowed, and she heard the clank of armoured men outside the bedroom, armoured boots muffled by thick expensive carpets. They were King’s Men. King’s Guards. Here to arrest her. Here to… kill her? Possibly. The problem lay with King Yoon, Tarek’s direct descendant; his blood heir. Yoon wouldn’t want an ex-hero of the Pass of Splintered Bones dragged through the dirt in extended shame and anti-royal publicity. One of the legendary Iron Wolves! That would be… complicated.

  Twenty-five years ago, the Iron Wolves, King Tarek’s elite force, held back tens of thousands of mud-orcs at the Pass of Splintered Bones; the mighty Desekra Fortress was almost overrun, thousands of Vagandrak’s finest soldiers slain, and Morkagoth, an evil sorcerer with the power to shapeshift, set to wrest the throne from King Tarek. Without the Iron Wolves, the whole of Vagandrak would have been overrun, the king murdered, the people sold into slavery; or worse, slaughtered in their beds. Men, women, children. Throats cut. Hung from trees. Genocide. Now, there were no greater heroes to inspire children and adults alike than the Iron Wolves. Epic sagas had been penned by the country’s finest scribes. Poems and songs were sung around tavern fires by minstrels earning their dinner. Children re-enacted the battle in endless amateur school plays. Scholars studied tactics from The Mud-orc Siege and The Charge of Splintered Bones.

  When the Iron Wolves, in an epic, desperate, final battle, finally reached and killed Morkagoth, the remaining mud-orcs retreated to their pits and slime in the south; thus ended the War of Zakora, and the elevation of the Iron Wolves to heroes. King Tarek showered them with gold, jewels, land and palaces. And they had gone their separate ways…

  Now, Lars, heir to the stinking backwater Lordship of Rokroth, had one of them in his bed. And she was wanted. Wanted. Not just for murder and smuggling, of which she was no doubt guilty; but also on suspicion of witchcraft, heresy and peddling the honey-leaf which was said to bring a man closer to the Three Gods and the Seven Sisters. Probably in the same kingsize bed.

  “IN HERE!”

  Kiki gave a short laugh. “You bastard. After all we’ve been through?” she muttered, without apparent irony.

  “I’m sorry, Kiki. Truly. It was fun. All of it was fun… while it lasted.”

  The door rattled.

  “Lord Lars,” came a muffled voice. “The door! It is locked!”

  “Idiots! BREAK IT DOWN!”

  She moved fast, head-butting him and making him howl from a scrunched up face with broken nose. Taking the long dagger, she rammed it hard into his shoulder, through flesh and bone, pinning him to the bed. A butterfly to a board. He thrashed suddenly, screaming, legs kicking, blood frothing around the wound and the nasty black triangular steel. Kiki leapt from the tangled silk sheets and dragged on leggings and a tight black shirt as sounds of crunching wood echoed through the room. She grabbed her weapon baldric, settling it over her head from right shoulder to left hip as the door burst in and five of the King’s Guard moved forward with drawn short swords.

  They glanced at Lars, thrashing on the bed, moaning, and touching the handle of the long dagger with little puppy yelps. Then heads came up as they focused on Kiki, who was standing with arms by sides, completely relaxed, iron grey eyes fixed on the five men. They wore King Yoon’s livery, mainly chainmail armour but with plate protecting chests, forearms and thighs. They wore tight helmets stamped with the Royal Coat of Arms. It was a good mixture, for it provided protection yet with increased mobility over full plate; Kiki gave a tight grimace showing her teeth.

  “You are under arrest, madam,” said the leader, who wore his black beard neatly trimmed and had dark eyes under shaggy brows. “In the name of the King.”

  “Do you know who I am?” Kiki said, voi
ce soft.

  “Yes, madam. No sudden moves. We’ve been instructed to bring you in alive, but if you force us into action we have authority to use maximum force. We are men of honour. None of us here likes to hurt a lady.”

  “That’s good, then, captain,” smiled Kiki, moving towards them, arms outstretched, hands crossed in a sign of surrender. She saw the guards’ shoulders relax, just that little bit. Behind her, Lars was making gurgling noises. “Because I’m no lady.”

  The throwing knife went from baldric to the captain’s eye socket in one swift, single slash. He staggered back as Kiki accelerated, another knife in her fist as she leapt, feinting left past a blade, kicking from the wall and punching her blade into the second guard’s throat. He gurgled, ejecting blood, and she rode him to the ground as another blade whistled horizontally over her head, crashing into the shoulder of a fellow guard. He cried out as steel struck chainmail, taking a step back. Kiki hit the ground, shifting into a forward roll and leaping again with the balance of an acrobat. All was chaos. In the confines of the room the guards were crammed in too tight to use their swords effectively. One pulled his own dagger, but Kiki was too close – close enough to kiss and she rammed her blade low, into his groin between the panels of chainmail and plate. She jerked it up. It bit him like acid and he groaned, staggering forward onto her as his femoral artery was snicked open and his lifeblood pumped out to rich thick carpets. She let him fall, taking his dagger so that now she held two, and twisted away, dropping to a crouch, pausing. Her face was speckled with blood, both fists glistening crimson. Three dead. Two left. They backed away, staring at her in horror.

  “Run to your mothers,” she growled, rising from her crouch and stretching her back. “Before I gut you like sour fucking fish.” But they could not, and she understood their hesitancy. These were King’s Guards. She was one little lady, without a sword. To retreat? The King would not look favourably on such an action. In her mind’s eye, Kiki pictured a large oak tree and a strong thick noose.

  “Get the others,” growled one guard, the senior by the grey in his beard. The younger of the two slipped through the broken door, thankfully.

  They were left alone. Lars had stopped kicking on the bed and was groaning, a low sound of self-pity as consciousness slipped away. The silk sheets were crimson in a wide pool.

  “Well then. It’s just me and you now, woman,” this final guard said.

  A curious silence settled on the room as Lars passed, thankfully, into a state of unconsciousness. Outside, Kiki heard the stomping of hooves, a whinny, the patter of rain on cobbles, the shout of a distant late-night food seller.

  Kiki watched him, and took a careful step back. Warily, the guard leant his sword against the wall and pulled free two long knives. His eyes were gleaming and he licked his lips. “These fools wanted to bring you in alive. But me? I’m happy to hear you sing like a skewered bird. Do you want to sing for me, pretty one?”

  Kiki stepped back around the bed, and the guard advanced, both knives before him. There was a hint of cruelty around his mouth, his eyes fixed on her with a certain intensity, and Kiki got the sudden chill feeling this man was a born killer; a murderer, hiding inside the honourable livery of Vagandrak’s military.

  “You get off, killing women?” she said, voice husky, taking another step back. And another. She was analysing his movements; wary now. He was smooth, well-balanced, like an oiled machine. Not like the others. He had waited at the back, weighing her up. Watching her. Studying her movements. Clever.

  “Men. Women. Children. There is an intimacy in death, don’t you find? To drive in that knife through soft resistance. An immortal embrace. To feel the last dying breath on your cheek, like a kiss from God. To see the sparkling life-light fade from understanding eyes. It is a beautiful moment. Exquisite. Perfect. Eternal. A moment to share. A moment to be stolen.”

  Kiki said nothing. She was near the wall, and the window which overlooked the street. But turning to slide open the portal was not an option. Turn your back on this man and he’d put a knife through your kidney.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Jahrell,” he said.

  “I am Kiki.”

  “I know. And we need to know these things. To share them. Before I kill you. Before you die.” He smiled, gently, like a doting father to a treasured daughter.

  “Before one of us dies, surely?”

  “As you say.”

  They paused, weighing one another up.

  “You don’t have to do this,” said Kiki.

  “That’s what they all say.”

  “You’ve done this before? This murder?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “A lot?”

  “Many, many times, my beautiful little songbird.”

  “How long have you got away with this… trickery?”

  “All my life,” smiled Jahrell. It was a sickly smile, when it came.

  “Ahh. I see. So… you’re one of those,” said Kiki, darkly.

  “I am not ashamed of my actions. I have done nothing wrong. I am holy in what I do. Blessed, so to speak. It is the greatest honour to take a life; and I do so enjoy earning that honour.”

  “I need to thank you,” said Kiki.

  “Thanks?”

  “Yes. You’ve removed my guilt.”

  “What guilt?”

  “Any guilt I might have felt at cutting your fucking throat,” she said – and launched at him. His knives came up fast, for he was supremely skilled despite his psychopathic tendencies; steel clashed, singing a metal song, a series of incredibly quick blows first from Kiki, defended by Jahrell, then by Jahrell, defended by nimble fast sure strong movements from Kiki.

  She stepped back.

  Horse hooves stomped outside. Men shouted.

  Time was… limited.

  “Good,” breathed Jahrell. “You’re one of the best. I’ll enjoy tasting you. Every, single part of you.” He licked his lips, which gleamed.

  “You’ll have to earn it,” said Kiki, sinking lower, into that place down below combat, down below war and fighting and anger and hate; she sank into a world where there was nothing more than the blades in her hands and the blades in her enemy’s fists. Rain filled with ice drummed the streets. Gushed in the gutters. His eyes sparkled. She could see sweat on the stubble on his upper, unshaved lip. He was smiling.

  He was sure, despite her skill.

  Fuck you, she thought. I despise your arrogance. I pity your superiority. I mock your pointless dedication.

  I’ll show you. Show you something new…

  He came this time, blades a dazzling blur, his movements more urgent. He knew his comrades would be dismounting, walking through the hall, climbing the stairs. And if they arrived too early he wouldn’t have his fun. His playtime would be over. He had to kill her fast. Had to earn his reward. The life-light leaving her pretty, pretty eyes…

  And she led him on, like an eager, spotted teenager with a priapic cock.

  It wasn’t difficult. She’d done it before.

  That was the problem with men.

  Always ruled by their petty, simple lusts.

  Just… No. Fucking. Intelligence.

  Blades clashed, clanged, deflected; his blade cut her upper arm and she yelped, sighed, turning to one side, injured, in pain, agony firing her eyes, deflating, and he came in fast for the kill but too fast and too eager and too ready to get the job done and finished. He was a premature ejaculation. Her knife cut into his belly and he gasped, choked, coughed heavily.

  He slumped against her, his arms suddenly weak and useless. She supported him as he gasped again, and it was intimate. She looked into his eyes, blade still buried in his guts, supporting his weight. He fought to lift his own weapons, but he could not. She smiled directly in his face.

  “Do you have a wife?” Her words were soft.

  He gave a nod.

  “And children?”

  Again, a nod. He fought again to raise his long knives, but Kiki
jerked her own blade and he groaned. No doubt the pain bit him like acid. No doubt it filled his mind with a bright hot fire and everything else was receding to a dull world of nothing; all that remained was the pain and the knife in his flesh like molten iron.

  And the knowledge. The knowledge he was going to die.

  “Sometimes,” said Kiki, leaning close, her mouth by his ear, aware he could smell her scent, her perfume, her stench of recent sex, “sometimes, I hate to kill. Not like you. For me, it is a duty. Sometimes, I kill to stay alive. I kill for honour, for king, and for country. I kill so that I may live.”

  “Yes,” he managed. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.

  “But this time,” said Kiki, shifting back a little so she could face him, to look deep into his eyes, and she kissed him then, a full bodied kiss, tasting him, tasting his decadence, “this time I love it. This time, Jahrell, you lost the game. But I will find your wife. I will find your children. I will tell them what you did. What you were. I have friends in the military; I’m an Iron Wolf, after all.” The irony was not lost on her. “And I will have your name scraped from the Hall of Heroes in Vagan.” She began to cut with the dagger, sawing upwards, opening him like a gutted fish. He moaned, dropping his knives, fingers grasping at her, clawing her, and she continued to saw like a butcher with a slab on the block, and his insides came spilling out and he stank like the dead he would soon become.

  Kiki pushed away the corpse, moved away, pulled on and laced up her boots. She grabbed a sword as she heard boots on the stairs and, giving one final glance at Lars – poor dumb back-stabbing pointless Lars, whom she did consider murdering for a moment, putting him out of his misery, but then decided against it. His petty existence was his punishment, and he fucking knew it. She moved swiftly to the window. She prized open the latch with her knife, slid up the six panes and climbed out onto the narrow stone ledge.

  Wind and rain and ice slapped her. She gasped, and laughed.

  She was alive. Alive.

  Alive for now, bitch, whispered her dark sister in the mirror.

  For a moment, vertigo gripped her and it felt as if the whole world was moving; the whole world was crumbling, falling down in some incredible vast collapsing earthquake. Kiki breathed deeply and controlled herself, and controlled the world around her, and the vertigo drifted away like smoke from a fire.