Description : The Iron Wolves
This one is for my mother, and my mother alone.
Sarah Ann Remic, “Sally” to her friends, 1928-2013.
May you rest in peace, my love.
“I’m sorry, Dek. Real sorry.” The large man grimaced through his thick beard, showing a missing tooth. “I apologise. Truly. From the deepest caverns of my heart.” His silhouette blocked out the roaring flames from the stacked hearth in the Fighting Cocks tavern. Voices hushed to a whisper and everybody turned eyes on Dek. Dek, the Pit Fighter. A pugilist you did not cross.
Dek rose to his feet, swaying under the influence of two large wine flagons. He turned, iron-dark eyes focusing on the neer and his fists clenched showing brutal scarred knuckles. He moved fast, and the right uppercut lifted the bearded neer clean from his feet, slamming him over the bar in a diagonal spin of smashed tankards, flying limbs and scattered stools. There came a few shouts, and some hushed curses. Somebody called for the landlord.
Weasel grabbed Dek’s arm. “No! He’s your brother!” hissed the little man.
“Well, I reckon I’m going to kill him,” snarled Dek, spittle on his chin, and Weasel saw the light of rage ignite Dek’s eyes and face and fists. He’d seen it many times, deep in the blood-slippery Red Thumb Fighting Pits. He’d witnessed it in tavern brawls and unlicensed fights down at the fish markets. He’d watched Dek’s...