The Iron Wolves

by Andy Remic

  “No,” she whispered, into tear-stained hands.

  But yes, sister, mocked Suza. He’s right. And you know he’s right. And the truth hurts, doesn’t it, bitch? Bites you like a toxic snake. Stings you like a scorpion strike. You’ve just pissed away your last and greatest friendship. Watched him walk out the door for the love of the leaf. I don’t need to despise you any more, sister. You have enough hate in your cancerous breast for the two of us.

  “Leave me alone!” she screamed, sobbing, and she could smell the aroma of honey-leaf in the air from the oven, just a hint, just enough to tease and her mouth began to water and she could taste it on her lips, under her tongue, in her brain; she had coin under the bed. All she had to do was grab a handful and head for any six or seven places she knew so well, better than the back of her hand. Better than her own face. Better than her own friends.

  She forced herself to her feet, wiping her eyes, and shoved the knife in her boot. She swayed a little, feeling suddenly, violently nauseous. Dizziness swamped her and she staggered, but grabbed the jug of water and forced herself to drink the entire contents. Then she stood there, panting, breathing deep, and ran for the stairs, taking them three at a time and nearly stumbling where she would surely fall and break her neck.

  She slowed, then burst through the rough wooden door and out into the bright street. Her boots slid on snow-kissed cobbles and she looked frantically up, then down past the bustling people. She couldn’t see Dalgoran. Damn it, she couldn’t see the old general! Where was he?

  The voice, when it spoke, made the hairs on her neck stand on end. She shivered, a deep feeling of vulnerability between her shoulder blades, and suddenly her eyes caught sight of two archers lurking in the shadows of the upper windows across the street.

  “Hello, Kiki,” said Lars, and Kiki turned, slowly. The nobleman had his arm in a sling and his face was pale and grey; but not his eyes. His eyes were red-rimmed and burned with hate, and fury, and bitterness.

  “I see you got the knife out,” she said.

  “You should have stayed to watch the fun,” he growled, and grinned, and only then did she notice the drawn sword, and hear the clatter of boots on cobbles. Two men were behind Lars, but swiftly another ten approached. These weren’t King’s Guards. These were mercenaries. Tough bastards. Outside the Law.

  And then there were the archers…

  “Can we talk about this?” she said, stalling for time. Why hadn’t she grabbed her sabre on the way out? Why? Why?

  Lars grin turned sickly. “Do you realise how much I suffered, whore? The surgeon says I will never use my arm again. Think about that. I am now a cripple. I am now to be mocked by the ladies, instead of bedded by them. So. I… don’t think words are enough, my sweet.” His body tensed for the killing strike, eyes narrowed, tongue wet against blood red lips…

  “Hold your blade, son,” came the deep, authoritative voice of Dalgoran. He stepped from the deep shadows of an arched doorway and eyed the twelve men.

  Lars’ gaze flickered to him. “Keep out of this, old man.” He made as if to move forward. When Dalgoran’s words came to him, they chilled him to the core.

  “Take another step, lad, and your bowels will decorate the street. Know this. I am General Dalgoran, of Desekra Fortress, former chief of the King’s Armies. I was killing men and mud-orcs before your suckled your mother’s tits and not one man has ever stood against me and lived. So, back down, take your mercenary scum, and fuck off, before I take exception to the lot of you and cut out your livers for fun.”

  “Brave words for one old man defending an addicted honey-leaf bitch.”

  Lars eased back towards the gathered mercenaries, then yelled, “Kill them!” The mercenaries surged forward, and in one smooth movement Dalgoran unsheathed his blade and cut upwards across the face of the lead man, who fell back, blood flushing his eyes. On the downward stroke he caught the second man between shoulder and neck, cleaving him from clavicle to sternum. A huge flap of flesh and attached arm folded out and the man hit the cobbles dead. Kiki grabbed the knife from her boot and ducked under a wild sword swing, coming in close, ramming her knife into the man’s groin to twist and nick the femoral artery. She carried his weight for a moment, taking his sword, then allowed him to flop to one side grappling at the flush of warm blood down his cotton trews. She blocked a downward sweep, kicked the mercenary in the groin, and stuck her adopted sword point straight into his throat where he gurgled on the wide arrow of iron for several seconds before Kiki front-kicked him from the point of her blade.

  There came hisses, and black-feathered arrows appeared in the backs of two mercenaries, who grunted and fell forward. A second later, they were joined by two more. In a few heartbeats eight mercenaries were dead; townsfolk were lining one side of the street, hands to mouths, eyes wide in horror at this sudden surge of violence.

  Lars stood, stunned, four men still behind him but his fury transcending normal logical thought. “You bitch!” he screamed, and launched himself at Kiki. She stood her ground, tall, graceful, head held high, eyes burning. She was back on the battlefield, armoured men bearing down on her, their swords slamming towards her head. She blocked Lars’ horizontal sweep and sparks showered the cobbles, blades sliding together until their hilts locked.

  “Say goodbye, Lars. You were fun… whilst you were breathing.”

  Kiki stepped back, disengaging blades, and what followed was a stunning display of swordsmanship. Lars, despite his fancy clothes and noble birth, had been taught by some of the finest swordsmen and fencing tutors in Vagandrak. But he was not a soldier. His contests had been for prizes, be they monetary, or the warm bed of some grinning, slack-jawed beauty. This was different. This was real. This was to the death…

  The blades rang in song, hissing left and right, diagonal cuts, thrusts to the face or groin; Kiki and Lars moved back and forth on the cobbles, faces locked in concentration but with an increasing look of panic creeping into Lars’ features. He licked his dry lips and found himself madly defending against a dazzling attack, blades clashing and grating together, until Kiki’s sword cut a line across the side of his neck. Blood flushed warm down his collar. An inch deeper and she would have cut open his windpipe…

  He took a step back. “I withdraw,” he said, voice shaking.

  “Not this time,” said Kiki, and launched a final attack, a dazzling smash of blades that left Lars’ weapon clattering across the cobbles, then a thud as his decapitated head landed face down, followed by his collapsing, deflating body.

  Kiki’s head snapped up. The remaining mercenaries held up their hands and glanced at Dalgoran who gave a nod. Slowly, they backed away from the scene, sheathed their swords and disappeared down the nearest alley.

  “The archers were yours?” said Kiki, smiling bleakly.

  “Of course. Basic military strategy dictates at least one form of backup when entering any known confrontation. It’s textbook.”

  “Yes. General Dalgoran. Father. Thank you. And… I’m sorry.” She took a deep breath. “I have been a fool.”

  He stared hard at her. “It was good to see you fight again, Kiki. Good to see my captain in action once more. You still have it; a bit rusty on the lower left defence, but not something that can’t be ironed out.”

  “You asked me a question. You want to reunite the Wolves? You want to take on this new menace?”

  “Yes. You’ll come with me, Kiki?”

  “I’ll come with you, Father. But I have to warn you, the others… they have fallen on bad times. Harsh times.”

  Dalgoran nodded. “It’s been too many years, Kiki. But whatever state we find them in, you’re still my Iron Wolves, still the best elite unit in Vagandrak. And I’ll skewer any man who says otherwise.”

  “Some might say you’re living in the past,” whispered Kiki.

  Dalgoran sheathed his sword and held up his hand as the City Guards approached. Seeing his rank, the squad of six stopped suddenly, snapping to attention, salu
tes held in place. Nobody demanded more respect than Dalgoran.

  Nobody, except the King.

  “We shall see,” growled the old general, and gestured for the guards to clean away the bodies.

  RED THUMBS

  Dek sat on the wooden bench, staring at the ale tankard before him. The tankard, in turn, sat on a wooden plank. The wooden plank was attached to other wooden planks, and the wooden planks, rough sawn, still carrying speckles of sawdust and the heads of large iron nails, were hammered together to form a crude box. It was a coffin. And inside the coffin lay Dek’s mother.

  Dek’s face was grim, battered, bruised, scowling. His knuckles were grazed and swollen, and one of his ears was missing a lobe and had been roughly stitched. Directly opposite him, also with a growling visage, sat Ragorek, although Ragorek held his tankard in his bandaged fists. The two men stared at one another. The grand living room was filled with menace and a promise of impending violence. A single brand on the wall flickered, filling the space with eerie light and long dancing shadows.

  “I came as fast as I could,” said Ragorek, finally.

  Dek took a drink. Foam lined his upper lip. “Eighteen fucking days. It’s a day’s ride, Ragorek. You unfeeling bastard.”

  Ragorek stared at him. “I was busy.”

  “Too busy to see your dying mum?”

  “I… didn’t realise how serious she was.”

  “I told you.”

  “I didn’t understand.”

  “Horse shit! You’re a bastard, Rag. A boneless, spineless, worthless son. I can’t wait for the day you die. Dad’s going to be there, wielding a helve and waiting for you to pop up your stupid grinning head. He’ll cave in your teeth, then your skull, and break your spine; and you’ll deserve every single damn blow.”

  “You said that. Wait. Wait!” Dek settled back again, violence a cloak. “You’re being too harsh,” said Ragorek, and sighed, and placed his tankard by his side on the bench. “I came here to help. To help, Dek. To bloody help! Don’t you understand?”

  “Horse shit,” growled Dek. “You thought you’d wait it out like a piece of shit coward, like a fucking rat at the bottom of a barrel of liquid shit. You thought you’d wait until she was dead, then poke up your stupid flat head and come on down for the money and the house. Well, here we are. And the house is here. But you know what, Ragorek? You can stick mum’s house up your rectum. You’re not having it.”

  “That’s not your decision.”

  “Now, there’s a wager.”

  “She lodged it with legal men in Drakerath. It’s a legal procedure. Seconded by the King and the Law of the Land.”

  “Fuck the Law of the Land.” Dek’s eyes were glowing. “And fuck the King.”

  “I have the law on my side,” said Ragorek, not unkindly. “You are blinded by grief. I understand that.” He slowly stood. “I can see it was a mistake me coming here.” He rubbed his aching jaw, and his tongue probed an extra missing tooth. “I’ll be gone. You’ll get the paperwork through soon enough.”

  Dek surged up. “YOU’LL FUCKING SIT DOWN AND DRINK YOUR BEER AND FUCKING SEND OUR MUM OFF RIGHT, OR I SWEAR BY ALL THAT’S UNHOLY, I’LL SNAP YOUR FUCKING SPINE OVER MY FUCKING KNEE!”

  The two men glared at one another.

  Brothers.

  Brothers in hate.

  Gradually, resentful, grumbling, Ragorek sat back down.

  Dek subsided, his eyes wild, his face a contortion. He glared at Ragorek, then drank his drink, then slammed his tankard on his mother’s coffin.

  “You show her disrespect,” said Ragorek, voice low.

  “No. I was here. HERE. I did it all. I sorted it all. I held her hand. I told her I loved her. I listened to her rants. I kissed her tears. I listened to her laments. She wailed, and begged, and cried, and asked why you, YOU, you fucker, asked why you weren’t here.”

  “You were always her favourite,” said Ragorek, softly.

  “Fuck you. Man, how old are you? What horse shit. That’s because when Dad died, I was there for her. I was always there for her. You fucked off. You went playing your pathetic little games of life in another town, another city, another world; but I knew, I knew she was dying and I stayed and I helped. You did not. Would not. You would not help. And I swear, man, by all the unholy gods, I swear I’ll make you pay for your disrespect.”

  “Not that again. Not the fight, again. I’m tired, Dek. Too old and tired for this.”

  “Well, wake up, old man, because I’m going to kill you.”

  They glared at one another over the rough sawn planks of their mother’s coffin. Around them, the house gave a soft creak, as if awaking. Outside, the wind howled and a storm hammered. Rain and sleet battered the windows. A lantern swung wildly, its yellow glow casting crazy patterns on the stone gravel drive.

  The house was large and detached, stood in three acres of its own land. Dek’s father had been not just a career soldier, but a trader in ancient texts; he’d made his money and saw his family well provided for before his untimely, early death. The house had been their family home. Dek and Ragorek had played there as children, exploring the nooks and crannies, learning its many secrets. Now, it was worth a pretty penny on the Vagandrak property market, and Dek knew Ragorek had a gleam in his eye for the incoming coin.

  Dek gave a sinister smile. Well. He had news for his brother.

  Dek drank. And slammed down his tankard.

  “Don’t do that.”

  “Why? You think I might wake the dead? I wish I could, brother. Wish I could.”

  They sat in uncomfortable silence for a while. The type of sour silence that invades a gloomy church ceremony. The atmosphere of a cuckolded husband listening to his wife’s weak excuses. The silence at a child’s funeral.

  “I sat,” said Dek, slowly, “and held her hand.”

  Ragorek stared at him. He didn’t know what to say. But he knew something was coming. Something bad.

  “I sat and held her hand. And I watched her struggling; not to live, I think. I think I was watching her trying to die. She looked like a corpse. Her face was drawn, gaunt, stripped back to the bone. She hadn’t eaten for forty or fifty days. I don’t know. I lost count. I was too busy fucking crying. Crying and wondering where the fuck you were.” He cast a sideways glance at Ragorek, but his elder brother said nothing. “She’d lie for a while and look like she was at peace. But then she’d grasp my hand, crushing my fingers – which was incredible, because all the weight had fallen off her. She was skin and bone. She squeezed the hell out of me, but that was good, good, because it showed fight and it showed strength. The will was there. I’d cheer her on. ‘Fight it!’, I’d scream. ‘Fight the fucking thing’. But of course, it gets us in the end, don’t it? We can only hold out for so long, no matter how bloody hard we think we are. And so I held her hand, and she squeezed me, and I watched her contort, writhe, arching her back, her mouth open in a silent scream. I wept, cried silently, as she screamed silently, and we were mother and son in misery as well as in flesh and history. I waited for her to die. But more. Much more. I willed her to die, you know? I begged for it in the end. Down on my knees by her bedside, as she screamed and moaned and shit herself. She was suffering and there was nothing I could do to make it right. I begged for the gods to take her, but of course the gods are all fucking sick, and I mock them, piss on their rancid false effigies. And so, in my madness I started to think about killing her. About taking that fat duck-feather pillow and smothering her; because I could; because I couldn’t bear it, but more importantly – and this is where you fucking need to listen you selfish bastard of a brother – because she couldn’t bear it.”

  Ragorek stared at him questioningly.

  “Did you kill her, little brother?” he asked, eventually.

  Dek held up his hand. “No, no, come on, please. I did not, although I contemplated it for long days and longer nights. But who am I to play a god? It is not for me to judge, to kill her, no matter how much she suffere
d.”

  “I am surprised.”

  “Why?” A plunge into immediate anger. Hate. Violence.

  “You’ve sent enough to their deathbeds. In the army. In the Wolves. As a fighter in the Pits. I know your reputation. I’ve seen you take men apart limb by fucking limb. You’re a madman, Dek. A madman.”

  “Only when the rage is on me. But I can control that now, I reckon. I’m better now.”

  “Yes. We’ll see.”

  Dek drank his ale. His small eyes were the colour of cobalt. He slammed down his tankard, which slopped over the sides, splashing his dead mother’s coffin.

  “That’s disrespectful,” said Ragorek again, words slow and direct as pointed barbs.

  “Fuck you. Fuck the man who fucks off for weeks when he knows his mother is dying. Fuck the man who doesn’t visit, doesn’t help, doesn’t care. Fuck the man who fucks off on his own little mission and only re-emerges when she’s dead and cold and gone, and he thinks he’s going to get his money, thinks he’s going to get his slice of the Estate. Fuck him.”

  “It wasn’t like that, Dek.”

  “It looked like that.”

  “It didn’t play out like that.”

  “Fucking looked like it, you big bastard.”

  They stared at each other. Time passed. Worlds died. Stars were born. They did not speak. Eventually Dek smiled. A broad, friendly, humorous smile that was totally out of place. He drank his ale leaving a foam moustache.

  “What’s that smile mean?”

  “Ha! Get fucked.”

  “No. Seriously, Dek. What’s going on inside your head? Except the blindingly obvious?”

  “We have a problem.”

  They stared at one another.

  “What kind of problem?”

  “A serious kind of problem,” said Dek, slowly, and threw his tankard to one side. He rose, ponderously, for he was a big man. He stared hard at his brother. “You have, of course, heard of the Red Thumb Gang?”

  “Yeah. Nasty scum. When they kill somebody, they leave a bloody thumbprint on the victim’s forehead.”