The Iron Wolves (23 page)

Prince Zastarte lifted the glass of ruby wine and smiled from that handsome, round face framed by long black curls and topped by an expensive felt hat containing a bright red feather. “A toast to you all, my dears! To such fabulous hosts!”

There came a gentle round of applause from the family members of the Wellton Estate and their friends, and servants circulated with silver trays bearing crystal glasses of finest port, brandy and the ruby wine which still glistened on Zastarte’s lips.

In the corner, under the glittering lights of a chandelier, Ember, youngest daughter of the Wellton family, struck up a lively piece on the glossy black grand piano, and Zastarte was just about to approach the young lady, face made up to look more than her enticingly sweet sixteen years, when Ember’s mother stepped before him, her hand lifted and clutching a lace kerchief.

“You may ask me to dance, Prince, if you wish,” she said, smiling to show slightly over-large yellow teeth.

“But why, of course!” exclaimed Zastarte, beaming a gallant smile, and began whirling Lady Wellton giggling around the large dance floor, her ample bosom bouncing, his feet jigging to the tinkling upbeat piano number, her laughter cackling out like a strangled hyena. Zastarte’s curls bounced in rhythm as his hand found her waist and squeezed just that little bit inappropriately through the lace and fanciful crochet-work of the tight white bodice she wore.

They danced around the room to four piano pieces, as Lord Wellton gradually drank himself into a state and retired to the library with seven other men of good-breeding and tweed for a smoke and a brandy.

Sweating now, Zastarte excused himself from the dance, leaving Lady Wellton red in the face, hand on her bosom, and headed off down a cool corridor towards the gentleman’s room, hand on the hilt of his rapier to stop it flapping against his legs.

Zastarte passed a full length mirror amidst the acres of dark oak panelling and he stopped for a moment to admire himself, as he always did. Tall, broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped, long of leg and upright and stiff, he was every inch the soldier, every inch the prince, every inch the
hero.
Oh how he had regaled all present with his tales of zig-zagging the point of his weapon to remove the surprised eyebrows from a mud-orc at Desekra Fortress; how he had reprimanded a drunken brigand in the street, his sword licking out to cut the buffoon’s waistband leaving his trousers around his ankles making everybody in the fish market laugh and point; and how his many previous infamous parties had led to (at his last count!), twenty-five pregnancies, seventeen divorces, three murders and one dancing dog. The dog wore red ribbons, danced on its hind legs, and made everybody roar with laughter.

Zastarte looked himself up and down. Tailoring of the finest quality, imported fine-weave cotton from Zakora, a silk blouse from Zalazar, Junglan lace ruffs at wrist and throat, with a thick Vagan top-coat of jet black wool, and of course, bright red Drakerath three-quarter length pantaloons tucked into bright white socks and glossy black Drakerath court shoes with golden buckles. He chuckled.
Some
fashion statements would never change. He really did look the part.

Zastarte looked into the reflection of his eyes, iron grey and piercing, set in a strong, lightly tanned face, square jaw, rugged hero looks, no scars (oh how he had protected his face in the days of battle!). He was every inch the dashing, well-matured fellow, noble and honourable, with impeccable history and a grand noble heritage. Had he mentioned he was noble? He was
damned
noble, with extra lashings of honour.

He tugged his coat a little, then moved to the gentleman’s room where he took his generously proportioned cock in one hand and pissed through the wooden hole in the floor as he hummed the piano tune played by Emba Wellton. He pictured her, with her tiny white features and hair in pretty blonde sausages. What a delightful child! At sixteen, soon she would have the suitors queuing to bring the gifts and desire of courtship. Grumpy old Lord Wellton would have a riot on his hands, that was for sure!

Zastarte chuckled, stowing his manhood away, then washed his hands and, taking a powder brush from its bowl, applied a light brushing of white across his cheeks. Then he stepped from the chamber and closed the heavy oak door behind him, with a click.

A hand grabbed his wrist, dragging him round the corner, and Lady Wellton pushed him hard against the wall. His head thudded the panelling.

“Lady Wellton!” he proclaimed, feigning shock.

“Oooh, you animal,” she said, hands rubbing up and down his arms and chest. She clutched at him eagerly, like a virgin on her wedding night.

“But… but what about Lord Wellton? This is an exceedingly compromising position you place us in!”

“Fuck me,” she hissed, grabbing his coat hard and pulling him down into a kiss. His lips found hers and she kissed him with the passion of a middle-aged divorcee after a decade of celibacy; she grabbed his hand, forcing it between her legs, panting; and he found she was exceedingly wet.

“Fuck me! No! Here! Now! Just FUCK ME!” she breathed, eyes wild, and now it was Zastarte’s turn to push Lady Wellton against the opposite wall, unzipping his bright red pantaloons and producing his engorged cock for her eyes to feast upon.

“Ooh,” she said, again, licking her lips. “Can I touch it?”

“Touch it, taste it, ride it, it’s time we got to business,” panted Zastarte, dragging up Lady Wellton’s skirts. He thrust inside her without foreplay, after all, time was of the essence, and she groaned and bit his shoulder, and her breasts wobbled against his chest, and over her shoulder Zastarte’s eyes gleamed and he grinned as he gave her what she wanted, hard and fast.

“Delightful evening, old chap!” said Lord Wellton, puffing on a cigar as Prince Zastarte stepped onto the stone steps at the front of Wellton Hall in a stretched circle of glowing orange lamplight. “Shame we don’t have more civilised company like you, hey?” He swayed a little, seriously the worse for wear after at least ten port and brandies.

A servant had brought Zastarte’s carriage around, and the four horses snorted in the cold night air, one pawing the loose stones of the driveway. Most of the guests had already left, and Zastarte gave a salute to his driver.

He shook Wellton’s hand vigorously, coughing a little on cigar smoke. “It’s been a mighty fine evening, old chap,” he beamed. “Very robust. Very energetic. I’ve found myself
invigorated
by the delightful company of your
delightful family
!”

“Good lad, good lad,” beamed Wellton as Zastarte stepped briskly to one side to take Lady Wellton gently by the arms, and deliver a petite kiss to her cheek.

“And Lady Wellton, it’s been a pleasure.”

“No, no, the pleasure was all mine,” she beamed, showing those slightly over-large yellow teeth.

“No, I insist, rarely have I enjoyed myself so thoroughly at an engagement! I find myself swollen with delight! Wet at the lips! I feel like an over-excited schoolboy who’s had all the sweets from the jar. Thank you so much for your wonderful hospitality. I’ve come into your life as a stranger, and leave the richer person.”

“You shall have to come again,” said Lady Wellton, giving a little curtsy.

“Indeed, I should love to come inside your home many, many times!” Glancing over Lady Wellton’s shoulder, he caught sight of Ember Wellton being fussed by servants and then heading for the stairs and, no doubt, bed beyond.

“Well, Zastarte,” said Wellton, punching him on the shoulder. “Don’t be a stranger.”

“I shan’t. And if you can convey my goodnight wishes to your fabulous daughters, and that very sweet little morsel, Ember. What a delightful pianist! Talented and skilled.”

“She gets her strong, agile fingers from her mother,” grinned Lady Wellton.

“I am sure she does. I am sure she does. Good night! Farewell!”

The room was a cool, dark place. Bare candles flickered in little alcoves in the grey stonework, and it had the feeling of a cellar, or dungeon, although it was dry and did not suffer damp. The floor was made of uneven stone flags, worn in places from centuries of boots and work. Along one wall there were several old, rusted iron chains. Occasionally, a gentle draught made iron links clink against the stonework, a subtle accompaniment to the heavy silence of this deep underground place.

At first, there was darkness.

Then light came to her, and it was the tender yellow light of hazy flickering candles. She blinked lazily, and yawned, and wondered where she was, what was happening, and why her surroundings had changed so drastically. Her mind tried to leap-frog facts and she could not focus, could not concentrate, could not
comprehend
. Where was her thick white duvet and plumped up pillows? Where was the frame of the dark oak four-poster bed? Where was the drifting gauze of the curtains that surrounded her little palace of sleep?

She realised she was on her back, and this was strange for she never slept on her back. Indeed, she was more the sort of person who snuggled deep under the covers and cocooned herself against the ice and the cold, against the dark and the savage real world. But here she was, arms and legs stretched apart…

She tried to turn over, but was restricted. Her mouth tasted fuzzy and metallic; like copper or blood. She worked her lips and tongue, and tried to move again. Something rattled. Something metal.

Awareness started to come to her, as if her mind had been full of smoke and gradually it was clearing. She realised with a start that she was naked, and that the place, the underground chamber, was warm. She heard the crackle of coals, with tiny hisses and pops. She frowned.

“Hel… Hello?” she managed through dry lips.

“Why, hello, my little darling,” came a rich, resonant voice, and she frowned again, deeper now, for she recognised that voice; it was a fabulous voice full of life and love and laughter. Where had she heard it before? And
where was she?

“Er, why… where am I? What happened?” She tried to lift an arm to rub at her head, but again felt the restriction, heard the jingle of chains. Her eyes were swimming in and out of focus, and she turned her head to the left… and her world dropped out through the bottom of her soul like a body in a tarpaulin dropped down a well.

Two people hung against the wall, their wrists in thick iron shackles, both naked, both unconscious, both slumped against the chains, which had been fastened to thick iron hooks hammered into gaps between the stones.

One was a woman, her body filthy, bruised, and… bloody. Strips of skin were missing on her belly and breasts. Her toenails, also, were missing, her feet brown where the blood had dried. The second figure was a young man with short blond hair. His wrists and arms were streaked with blood, presumably from struggling. He had no marks on his naked body, but ducking down a little, she could see his face was heavily bruised.

Now there came a sigh from behind her, and a figure stepped into view. He was tall and handsome and gallant and noble, and her heart leapt, for surely the wonderful Prince Zastarte was here to rescue her?

He grinned at her, then, a look of genuine good humour. He tilted his head, eyes locked on hers, as if trying to decipher what was going on in her head. Then he licked his lips, and she saw he carried a pair of tongs, their end punctuated by a hot coal glowing orange, sizzling softly, and offering threat implicit.

“Prince!” she said, startled. Then pulled against her chains.

“Ahh, sweet Ember Wellton.” He moved closer, puckering his lips at her as if she were some little cry-baby and he was about to mock. “You are such a pretty little thing, yes you are. I bet that little mind is all tumbled over and so confused, isn’t it?” He screwed up his face.

“You have brought me here?”

“I would clap, but I fear this coal would burn off my flesh.” His voice sounded more authoritative now. It was like a knife of iron had suddenly eased through him, and the glint of humour had gone.

“Why? Why would you do this?”

“Questions. Always the questions.” He moved yet closer and rested his hand lightly on her soft, naked, pale ankle.

She licked her lips, and then looked up at him. “Seriously, Prince Zastarte,” she managed, although her voice was a little cracked, “why have you brought me here?”

“I would like to say it was for the money, little Ember. I would like to say it was because I was in great debt at the hands of the Red Thumb Gangs, and thus driven by despair to desperate ends, taken to kidnapping young wealthy individuals in order to extort large amounts of finance from their bloated, over-stuffed parents.” He smiled, and trailed his hand from her ankle, to her knee, then halfway up her thigh. She shivered. He smiled at the response. “But then, that would be a lie.”

His hand continued its journey, moving up her thigh, sliding slightly inside so that his trailing fingers gently teased against the edge of her pubic mound, slowing a little, as if they might explore further to an intake of her breath, but then circling, and moving up her flat white belly to rest gently on her ribs.

“I would like to say I am overcome with lust for your amazing and fabulous tight little white body. Your bottom is so firm and strong, your breasts pert, nipples erect with fear even as we speak… and yes, your eyes and lips are all perfect, your hair oiled with the finest of lotions, your legs long and straight, your quim an absolute exquisite joy to behold…” he came close, fast, face looming into her, “and yes, of course I would like to fuck you just as I fucked your mother, twice, hard and fast against the wall, her hands on my rump pulling me in harder faster deeper as she bit my chest and neck and just couldn’t get enough; then later, up in your father’s bed whilst he drank himself stupid down below on port and brandy, pulling out at the last minute to eject my seed all over her tits and face, rubbing my juice into her lips, into her mouth, watching her taste me and her together, our sexual honey converged and mated forming the sweetest elixir; oh yes, sweet Ember, I could do that to you, I could give you the forbidden fruit and watch you drink it so deep. Alas, sex is something that bores me. To fuck you, yes, it would bore me very much.”

Ember stared hard at him, mouth open, pink lips dry, unable to comprehend what was actually going on. Then slowly she closed her mouth and the terror came, and it was a terrible dark worm coming up from the pit of her belly, through her heart, into her mouth like a dead scaly thing, sucking out her life.

Understanding had arrived.

“Please don’t hurt me,” she said, voice barely more than a whimper.

“Hurt you?” he shouted, whirling suddenly away like a dancer, the glowing coal leaving traces of bright swirls before Ember’s eyes. “Of course I won’t hurt you!” He returned, and rested a hand near her throat. “Not yet, anyway, my sweet darling.”

He turned and moved to the two people hanging against the wall, ducking a little to look up into the young man’s face.

“Aha! So you are awake, you cheeky little scamp. You thought to fool old Uncle Zastarte with your playground play acting?” He grabbed the man’s hair and jerked his head up roughly. Then he glanced over to Ember. “See, Pestrat? You have an appreciative audience now, my friend!”

Ember gasped, for one of Pestrat’s eyes was gone revealing nothing but a black, empty socket. The young man started to whimper, then to wail, and Zastarte slapped him hard across the face, knocking his head to one side and silencing the noise.

“Enough of that, fucker.” He lifted the tongs, with the glowing coal, until it was near Pestrat’s face. The man started to squirm, trying to get away from the terrible heat. “What’s the matter, cat got your tongue?” Then he gave a low laugh. “Of course not. I’ve got it. In a jar, over yonder.” He pointed with the coal to somewhere behind Ember, who was slowly pissing herself, her urine dripping from the bench upon which she was chained.

Pestrat’s face began to glow with a gentle soft light as the coal came closer once more. His remaining eye was wide in absolute terror.

“Don’t do it,” croaked Ember.

Zastarte half-turned, but he was focused on his task.

“Please, don’t hurt him anymore!”

“Why?” snapped Zastarte, whirling about and stalking towards her. He thrust the glowing coal towards her face and she squealed, trying to back-pedal, to get away. “You want to take his pain for him?”

“No, no, I just don’t understand…”

“And you think I expect you to? You think I
care
whether you understand why I bring you people here? You are the dregs at the bottom of the barrel, and yet you float at the top. You wade through your lives stepping on all those around you, using them like cattle in your factories, your tanneries and fish gutting plants, your slaughter-houses and sewers; and you take the money, the profit, and let them live in filth and squalor and poverty. You abuse your fellow human beings and you think there will be no retribution? Well, I am here to show you not everybody is afraid! I am here to show you the poor and the weak and the abused, they can fight back, they can turn on their masters and make them suffer just like the poor and the weak of this world suffer.”

“I have done none of those things!” wailed Ember.

“No,” snarled Zastarte, “but your family have, they have built their wealth on the backs of the poor, and for that, my sweet little girl, they must be punished. And they will be punished. Through you. Through your pain and through your exquisite suffering.”

He advanced on Pestrat, and thrust the coal into the man’s remaining eye. Pestrat screamed a deformed scream, a strangled, cauterised wail, his bloody tongue stump waggling, his head lifting high as if praying to a god who didn’t love him for a miracle that couldn’t happen.

It took a minute, but to Ember the minute lasted a lifetime.

Then Zastarte turned, grinned at her, his face a sheen of sweat with a few smudges from the coal brazier. His iron grey eyes were gleaming. He said, “Then again, that whole ‘for the good of the people’ horse shit could just be all be… horse shit. After all. Some of us just like to watch people suffer.”