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Authors: Meljean Brook

Tags: #Romance, #Fantasy, #Adult

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BOOK: The Kraken King
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Ariq did, but not as he once had. “Only during celebrations.”
“And he was finally beaten last New Year,” Tsetseg said behind him.
So he had been. And she’d been in the pile.
“Ariq Noyan wasn’t beaten.” Though at the time, Vasili had crowed about the victory as much as Tsetseg had, the blond soldier was frowning at her now. He didn’t like Jochi hearing of Ariq’s defeat. “It wasn’t a fair fight. There were eight of us, and he’d drunk enough arkhi to drop an elephant.”
“I was beaten,” Ariq said. “‘Fair’ means nothing in battle. Enemies won’t always be weaker.”
“‘Fair’ means something in a game.” Jochi stopped and looked up at him. “It meant something when you fought the Butcher—and he was stronger than you were.”
That story would live longer than Ariq did. “So you’ve heard of that.”
“No,” Jochi said. “I saw it.”
While still in swaddling? It had been Ariq’s fifteenth summer, and his first time accompanying Ghazan Bator to the dens. Hoping to win favor with the general, Lord Duval had greeted them with a celebration in his honor, and invited the other den lords to bring three of their strongest to compete in his sand pit. Though the rebels were only meant to be spectators to the tournament, Ghazan Bator had put Ariq in the arena, too.
He’d earned his name there. The Kraken. Because of the tattoo already on his back, his unbreakable grip, and—after the den lords had each begun sending in all three of their champions against him at once—because his opponents had begun to joke that Ariq seemed to possess more than two arms.
Unfair
had been pitting one man against Ariq. Even three men barely had a chance. His general hadn’t cared. Most of the den lords hadn’t, either. Merkus had. He’d brought in a new champion, one that he’d claimed would even the odds—a man who’d once been a butcher in the Moroccan labor colony. After he’d moved to the dens, the knives and cleavers grafted to his arms had been traded for mechanical hands, and a full pneumatic exoskeleton strengthened his frame.
No one who’d looked at the Butcher believed the odds were even.
It hadn’t mattered. Ariq had fought; he’d won. And when they’d returned to the mainland, Ghazan Bator had given him command of his first unit of soldiers.
The name had followed him, too. But he’d earned it again on the battlefield—the commander with the unbreakable grip and who never failed to reach his enemies.
Almost twenty years had passed since then. “You watched the fight?”
“I’ll never forget it.” Jochi shook his head. “Everyone thought you would lose. Everyone. Then you locked your arms around the Butcher’s shoulder pistons and it was over. Merkus said you must have known how to defeat his gear—and that was why you accepted the challenge.”
Ariq hadn’t known how to defeat him. He just hadn’t had any other choice.
“No,” he said. “I had one purpose in that sand pit: to show the rebellion’s strength. I’d have lost everything if I failed or if I walked away from a challenge. I would never have commanded a unit. I’d have been left in the dens to rot. Because Ghazan Bator discards anyone he doesn’t have a use for, or who no longer serves a purpose.”
Just as the Rat Den would no longer serve a purpose when the Khagan finally fell. It wouldn’t be long. Then a port contract would be worth nothing.
Judging by the stiffness of Jochi’s shoulders, Ariq’s message had hit exactly where he’d intended. But the den lord couldn’t argue without betraying the name he’d sworn to keep secret. So Ariq only added, “Fair didn’t mean anything against the Butcher, because my fights in that sand pit were
never
a game.”
Jochi nodded tightly. They continued on to the arena in near silence, picking up a retinue of curious, giggling children in their wake. For once, Ariq wasn’t the focus of their attention. Vasili’s blond braids were.
At the entrance, Ariq gestured for the gunner to stay outside. The children would try to sneak in after him. Better for them to wait here until this was finished.
There was no question where the money from the flyers had gone. The arena had once been little more than a sand pit surrounded by boards laid over wooden pilings. Now benches rose around the stadium floor, with boxes for visiting lords and merchants. A high wall ringed the arena; no one sat level with the pit. Staging theaters had been built at both ends.
So Jochi hadn’t relied on the port contracts. He’d invested in this—and his wrestlers. Ariq had already heard complaints about how the den lord had lured the fighters away from other arenas. They practiced now at the edge of the pit, their bodies glistening with oil. Tan lines showed where they usually wore armor protecting their necks, their arms and legs.
Against another man, clothing and armor meant certain failure. Unlike oiled skin, an opponent could grab onto armor and force a man to his knees.
Against zombies, that armor meant life.
He looked over the wrestlers before turning to Jochi. “Where are your pens?”
“Pens?” The young man’s brow furrowed. He shook his head. “I don’t have pens.”
Jeong-hak stepped forward. “Under the stadium. They come through that entrance.”
He pointed to the east staging area. So Jochi had kept the creatures here, despite knowing Ariq was coming. That might have been arrogance, but probably just meant Jochi had a working brain in his head. Moving the zombies off-site posed more risk than Ariq ever could.
Ignoring the den lord’s denials, Ariq started toward the staging theater. By the time they reached the door, Jochi’s protests had turned to resigned, frustrated silence. The wrestlers had stopped their practice, watching quietly as Ariq left the arena.
Cages stood open around the chamber. On the night of a game, the zombies would be kept here until they were released into the stadium. Now they were empty. Without pausing, Joeng-hak led them to a cargo lift.
Jochi didn’t attempt more denials. He tried to salvage. “We’re careful. Two doors at every junction. The outer doesn’t open if they aren’t under control.”
“You’ll never have control,” Ariq said. The cargo lift rattled and the young man became more frustrated with every foot they descended.
“We do.” Anger bit through his reply. “They’re handled with poles. One man to keep it contained, and another always ready to shoot. We check every guard for bites before he leaves.”
The stench hit when the lift docked. Decay. Rotting flesh. The rattling stopped and growls filtered through from the pens.
He left Tsetseg, Bartan, and Jeong-hak to guard the lift and prevent anyone else from coming down. Strong doors secured the next chamber. Thick, heavy doors. They would never be enough.
More cages stood in the pens. Fingers grasping like claws, skin hanging loosely from gaping wounds, two dozen zombies pushed against the thick iron bars—brought in from Europe, from Africa. There was no way to tell. They were all the same. Ravenous. Mindless.
Ariq drew his pistol.
“No!” Jochi grabbed his wrist. “You think anyone would come to see men grappling with each other? They won’t pay for that. They want men like the Butcher. They want machines. They want to see blood and death, and they’ll spend money to get it. These things feed my people.”
“They’ll feed
on
your people.”
The fingers on Ariq’s arm tightened. “You can’t destroy them.”
“I won’t. You will.” He twisted his arm out of the den lord’s grip and held out his pistol to him. “When this is empty of bullets, I will give you another. Now shoot them all. In the head.”
Wildly, Jochi waved toward the pens. “They are contained! The cages and the doors—”
“Are not enough!” Ariq thundered. “Do you forget Kiev? We built the strongest wall that the world has ever seen, and it did not save the people there. Instead Vasili killed his own parents and his brother. Bars and doors did not save Marrakesh. It didn’t save Tyre or Madurai. They all thought they were safe. They thought the zombies were contained. They never were. Never. They
always
get through. And we burned every person in those cities. Every one.”
Defeat weighed upon him, but Jochi didn’t give up. “The den lords don’t protest.”
“Because they are up in their fortresses and behind their walls, and they believe the water around your island makes them safe. But it will only take one bite, one person hiding away on a ferry because he knows that death awaits if he’s discovered. One bite, and you will kill everyone in the dens, and everyone on this continent.”
Including Ariq’s own town. And if Jochi didn’t have the balls or the brains to do this, Ariq would make certain that he never posed a threat to his people again.
Jochi took the gun. Jaw clenched, he looked down at the weapon, then up at Ariq.
“You can try,” Ariq said softly.
A long second passed before the den lord’s arm came up. He pulled the trigger.
A zombie’s face caved in. Another. When the hammer fell with a dull click, Ariq gave Jochi another pistol and reloaded the first.
Aroused by the noise and the blood, the creatures lined up for their slaughter. Then it was done. No more growls. Just Jochi’s labored breathing and the corpses piled against the bars.
The empty despair on the den lord’s face looked too familiar. Ariq’s brother often wore the same expression.
With a knot in his chest, Ariq took the weapon from Jochi’s hand before the den lord could raise it to his own head. “You’ve done well by your people. Don’t bring their ruin in under their feet.”
“
This
is ruin.” His voice was hoarse. “You’ve taken everything we have.”
“No. These things are not your assets. Your people are. So don’t risk their lives like this. Tell them that was why you destroyed the zombies.” And it
had
been why. If Jochi hadn’t recognized the danger and the truth of what Ariq had said, the den lord would have turned the gun on him. “And when the time comes for the other dens, when they burn down the fortresses and the walls, your people will stand by you, instead.”
Jochi stared bleakly at the zombies, then looked to Ariq. “Is that time coming?”
“It always does. And when it comes, I’ll stand by you, too.”
With surprising resilience, his good humor returned. “Is that what you tell all the den lords?”
“No. I just give them kraken cock.” Ariq clapped him on the shoulder and started for the door. “I also haven’t told them of the contract I need for one of the mining settlements up north. If Merkus stood where you are, I wouldn’t make this offer. If you’re interested, I’ll make it to you.”
“I am.” No hesitation.
Good. Shipping iron ore wouldn’t bring as much money as the rebellion could, but would help keep the den on its feet.
Jochi glanced back at the zombies before they left. “The twins and the others are still coming tonight. I don’t suppose you’ll add a few rounds inside the arena to that offer?”
“I’ll throw in someone better.” He pushed through the chamber door and nodded to his soldiers. This had been a victory, with no human bloodshed. But it could be a greater victory yet. “Tonight, you’ll have Tsetseg.”
Ariq planned to have Zenobia—along with answers. It was time she told him what the hell she carried in her pack.
And why the rebellion was after her.
XII
Now
this
was an adventure.
A street. Alone.
Zenobia’s heart pounded harder now than when she’d escaped from the burning airship.
Oh, this was wonderful. She could hardly take it in. A blur of color and sound surrounded her, yet everything seemed so sharp and clear: the lorry that had almost run her over. The old woman crossing one of the rope bridges above—oh! Zenobia simply had to run across one of those before she returned to the inn. Another woman passed her on the walk, her lips painted a brilliant red and her black hair up in the fluffiest, loveliest bun that Zenobia had ever seen.
She hadn’t been able to fix her own hair that way. She’d settled for a twist and a few pins. After studying the women out the window, Zenobia was certain she didn’t stand out. They were of all races, all attitudes. Some kept their eyes on the ground; others strode boldly. They all seemed to wear more color than the women at home, so Zenobia had chosen a tunic in bright, bright green, a brighter color than she’d ever worn—and yet she was as unremarkable as the smoke stains on the building walls. She was no one here. There was no reason for anyone to look twice, or to kidnap her and hold her for ransom. And her heart raced, but it wasn’t from fear—just the thrill, the freedom of it all.
It was incredible.
She stopped at the tinker’s shop window and looked through the iron bars. On the way here, she’d realized that the typesetting machine might not even place
letters
on the page. Most of the signs she’d seen were written in kanji or the Mongolian script. But there they were,
a
,
b
,
c
, and God bless whoever had brought the machine to these dens.
Maybe it had been a secretary who’d killed his employer and fled, then sold the typesetter when he’d run out of stolen funds. Or a pirate with no tongue and no fingers, who could only make his outrageous demands by typeset letters, and who had retired with a fortune and no need to write again.
It didn’t matter how the typesetter got here. It was
hers
now.
She went in. The humid shop smelled of oil and sounded like a pit of hell. The grinding screech of metal stopped when the tinker looked up from her lathe. Young, not more than sixteen or seventeen, she had straight black hair and goggles protecting her eyes. An older woman snored while sitting upright on a mat against the far wall.
“Do you speak French?” Zenobia asked.
The girl lifted her gloved hands and replied.
Zenobia didn’t understand a word. That might have been Mongolian or Nipponese, or any of the myriad other languages spoken in this part of the world.
But one language was always the same.
Zenobia withdrew a gold coin and held it up, then pointed to the typesetter.
The girl pushed her goggles back, revealing dark eyes widened in surprise. As if in a trance, she set aside her tools and walked to Zenobia’s side, her gaze locked on the coin.
The gold was worth far more than the typesetter—but the machine was worth every extra denier to Zenobia.
Smiling, the girl took the coin, hefted its weight, then made a sweeping motion that encompassed the entire shop. Inviting Zenobia to take something in addition to the typesetter.
Well. Zenobia couldn’t carry half of it, especially since she would be hauling the typesetting machine back to the inn, too. But she would look. Maybe there was something that Helene could stuff into her ears while Zenobia wrote.
Like every other tinker’s shop she’d been in, most of the items seemed to be salvaged and repaired instead of built by the tinker. Miniature windups of the Nyungar’s walking machines and hopping kangaroos waited on the shelves. Lamps of all sizes hung over a case full of lenses polished to a high gleam. There were small devices whose purpose she couldn’t fathom, and others that she figured out when the tinker’s eyes rounded again and color darkened her cheeks.
Oh. So she would not give
those
to Helene. But curiosity made her linger over them a while longer, looking at their shapes and trying not to think of the governor.
That might have been a thrilling adventure, too.
A tug at her sleeve made her look up. The tinker didn’t direct her attention to another shelf, as she expected. Instead the girl was frowning toward the storefront window.
Zenobia didn’t see anything. Only a few passing vehicles and a pair of men loitering on the walk. One was looking into the shop. At her typesetter? He wasn’t going to get it—
Her heart froze. Oh, dear God. She knew him.
His mouse-brown hair was longer. His face was redder, his body heavier. But she recognized him. Polley, one of the mercenaries aboard the airship
The Kite
—the airship on which she’d spent weeks waiting for her first ransom. After Archimedes had paid a fortune for her return,
The Kite’
s captain had split the money with his men. Not all of them thought they’d received a fair share.
Polley looked as if his share had gone into a bottle.
Wearing a cocky grin, Polley offered her a little salute. His eyes never left her when he spoke to his companion, a short, dark-haired man who gave Zenobia a calculating once-over.
Damn him. Damn them both.
They moved past the window, out of sight, but she knew. They’d be waiting. Kidnapping Zenobia Fox was a tried and true path to easy riches. But this time, she was far from home, far from Archimedes—and payment would be a long time coming.
Her throat closed. She’d just wanted one bit of freedom. Just one adventure without fear.
She’d just wanted a blasted typesetting machine.
Anger burned through the frozen despair. Striding to the window, she looked out. No sign of Polley and the other man. She couldn’t hope for help from the men patrolling in mechanical suits—they’d just watch her be taken. She had to do this herself. All right, then. The inn was just down the row. She could run like hell.
The tinker joined her. A knife flashed in her grip. Without a word, she offered it to Zenobia.
Zenobia pulled up her sleeve and showed her the spring-loaded sheath strapped to her forearm. A gift from Archimedes, she usually kept it in her pack. He used similar weapons when he explored zombie-infested cities. The dens had seemed a suitable place for Zenobia to wear hers. She only had to flick a small lever and a dagger would jump into her palm.
The girl grinned. Zenobia wished she could smile back. Instead she stared at the inn, trying to build her courage. Just a short run. And someone would probably see her coming. The innkeeper emerged from the entrance, looking up at a balloon cab descending toward the inn’s gate. A single passenger sat beside the pilot. A single passenger with broad shoulders and a wonderfully, beautifully familiar profile.
Oh, thank God.
She burst through the shop door and shouted with all of the breath she didn’t need to run. “Governor!” Sprinting, her boots pounded on the boards. So loud. Everything so loud, the engines and the people and could he hear her at all? He hadn’t turned her way.
“Ariq!”
Polley came from nowhere. His thick arm whipped around her stomach.
It was like she’d barreled full-tilt into a log. The air slammed from her lungs. Stumbling, she tried to keep going, but he dragged her back, his sweaty palm smothering her scream.
Desperately, she clawed at his fingers before regaining her sense and pushing her hand into her sleeve. Polley hadn’t come from nowhere, but an alley, just a tiny space between two buildings that opened onto another street.
No, no, no.
Not this time. The dagger’s leather grip popped into her hand. She swiped wildly behind her.
“Get that knife!”
Rough fingers squeezed her wrist. Polley’s companion. She cried out as he squeezed harder and pried her fingers open. They kept dragging her back. God. If she disappeared down that alley Zenobia knew she would never be seen again. Archimedes was too far away, the kidnap unplanned, and quietly getting rid of her would be easier than keeping her for months. She had to stop them.
She kicked backward, using her heel. Polley grunted but kept going. She opened her mouth and clamped her teeth on the fleshy bit of palm that pushed past her lips.
With a shout, Polley jerked his hand away.
She hauled in a breath to scream.
“Ar—!”
Pain exploded across her face. White burst through her vision and for an instant she didn’t see the alley at all, but her father, his hand still raised, his knuckles red.
She’d written a poem that time. A bawdy little poem, carved into the wall of the closet that he’d locked her in.
Vicious fingers grabbed the back of her neck and Polley shoved her forward into the side of a shop. Pain burned a hot slice in her side. Blood coated her tongue. Her cheek grated against rough wood and she stood pinned against the building, her breath coming in ragged sobs.
“Now just stop.” His hand tightened on her neck, his fingertips digging into the sides of her throat. He pressed the edge of the dagger harder into her left side. “You know we won’t hurt you, so if you fight us, anything that happens is your own fault. You just got to be quiet until our money comes.”
She’d give him money now. A fortune of gold coins back at the inn. But she couldn’t speak—could barely breathe.
Polley’s grip eased slightly. “So are you settled? Just—”
His fingers tore away from her neck. The dagger vanished from her side. Zenobia sagged against the wall and gulped in air, dizzily aware of the harrowing scream that ended on a wet, crunching thud. A man cried out. Polley’s companion. She looked back just as he slammed into the opposite wall, held up off the ground by the hand locked around his throat. A tall figure stood before him. Tears blurred her vision, but she only knew one man that big.
Ariq.
Shaking, she turned and braced her shoulders against the wall behind her.
Ariq spoke, his voice even. “Are you all right?”
She’d never heard calm like that. Terrifying. Like the lull in a typhoon. Like death.
“Yes,” she managed to whisper. Polley hadn’t stabbed her. He’d just sliced her skin.
But she couldn’t see. With a trembling hand, she wiped the tears from her eyes and spotted the body on the ground.
Her stomach heaved into her throat. Polley’s head lay between his ankles, as if he were bowing—but he was bowing the wrong way. His back had been snapped. Glassy eyes stared at her from between his boot heels. Blood dripped from his slack mouth.
Broken in half. Ariq had
broken a man in half
.
Polley’s accomplice had seen, too. The man had begun crying, begging. A fog seemed to muffle her brain. She heard everything. But it was all nothing, nothing.
Still so calm, Ariq said, “Who sent you after her?”
“No one! My mate told me, ‘We’ll get some money if we take her.’ That’s all, God, I swear!”
“Listen, then. There’s only one reason you live now. You are going to tell everyone that Zenobia Fox is under my protection. Anyone you meet, those will be the first words out of your mouth for the rest of your life.”
“Yes!” The man babbled his agreement before Ariq finished. “Yes, yes!”
“You know who I am? Let me hear it.”
Under his protection.
Numb, Zenobia lifted her hand away from her side. Crimson stained her fingers. Blood over kraken ink.
They’d never made her bleed before.
“Zenobia Fox is under the protection of the Kraken King!”
“If I ever hear that you haven’t said it, I’ll come for you.” Ariq paused, and seemed to grapple for his calm again before he said, “Did he touch you, Zenobia?”
“My wrist,” she answered dully. The skin where he’d grabbed her was raw and red. Pain shot through her knuckles when she tried to bend them. Her writing hand. “He hurt my fingers when he took my dagger away.”
Without a word, Ariq gripped the man’s wrist. From far away, she heard the crack of bones, saw his elbow twist and jut backward.
Ariq set the screaming man on his feet and shoved him toward Polley’s body. “Now drag him down the street so everyone can see. And you tell them all what will happen if anyone touches her again.”
Then he came to her, his calm seeping away with every step. His skin seemed tightly stretched over his cheekbones, and white edged his mouth. Eyes dark with concern swept her face. Gentle fingers tilted her chin up, and at his touch, the fog tore away and she was there again, against the side of a shop where she’d almost been kidnapped. Polley’s companion lurched toward the mouth of the alley, dragging the body, his screams sounding almost like laughter, but it was just agony and hysteria and the words Ariq had ordered him to say.
Zenobia Fox is under the protection of the Kraken King!
His thumb slid across her cheek, wiping away tears. Zenobia hadn’t realized she was still crying, but now she felt the sting of salt against the corner of her mouth.
BOOK: The Kraken King
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