The Iron Wolves (3 page)

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 nine 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?”

“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.