The White Towers (28 page)

 

“
Halt
!” boomed the deep, bass-heavy voice. What made it more terrifying were the accompanying ripples of bestial growls that joined the words from the gloom of the museum arch; as if the shadowy figure wreathed in darkness commanded an army of slavering monsters ready to charge and leap and tear out throats in their animal hatred. Maybe he did. “
Halt
!” Take one more step and you
will
DIE
!”

“A little melodramatic,” muttered Narnok, turning so his injured ribs were to the rear of any prospective combat; protected, so to speak. He lifted his axe. Light from a rack of thick, sputtering candles gleamed iron eyes from the blades, and reflected dancing patterns across the marble tiled floor of the museum interior.

“We saw your fires,” said Narnok. “We saw you burning the trees of the elf rats. Figured you were out to smash them. We wanted a part of that. Reckoned you might need some help. Obviously, if you don’t need our help, then we’ll fuck off, like.”

There came a long, contemplative silence. Narnok exchanged low, slow glances with Trista. If this thing went bad, which sometimes these things did, there was going to be yet more violence. And Narnok, despite appearances, was not in the best shape for a fight.

They waited at the behest of the madman in the shadows, surrounded by his low growls, dogs probably, hopefully, and wondered what the next move would be. Like a game of chess, although without the logic, and with swords and axes as a bright bloody attack. So. Not
really
like a game of chess at all, then, although Narnok would like to register some element of tactics, somewhere, whether he deserved them or not.

“You going to speak then, man, or what? We saw you burning the trees. Figured you might like some help against the scourge of the occupying elf rats. If not, that’s fine, mate. We can go toss off to some other psychopath’s nightmare.”

“Narnok?” Soft words. A confused question. An imagined tilt of the head.

“Aye, that’s me. Narnok of the Axe. Hero of Desekra Fortress and Splintered Bones, not that it means a flying bucket of horse shit anymore.”

“Narnok?
Narnok?”

“Yeah yeah, bastard, don’t wear it out. Am I supposed to know you, or something?”

The figure stepped forward through flickering candlelight. Above him, statues and busts stared down with eyes of reflected flame, severe and uncompromising and condescending. Their disgust at his half-breed looks seeped through Narnok’s bones, and he felt just that little bit crushed. Like a man teaching at a premiere university when he intrinsically knew he had no right to be there, either by virtue of solid working class roots, by virtue of a limited, stilted, narrowed intelligence, or by virtue of achieving his position by cheating his damn way inside.

Narnok squinted, leaning forward a little.

“Do I know you?”

“Oh, you know me all right,” said the figure, voice quite neutral. Narnok gave a shiver, for he could not quite decide whether this man was friend or foe, and the sounds of the growling had increased in pitch and ferocity, as if the man barely controlled a platoon of rabid werewolves on a leash.

Narnok shivered.

“So? What’s your name,
friend
?” said Narnok, unhooking his axe and sliding it into a combat position with infinite ease, but all the time displaying a smile, a fake smile, a smile that had hooked blank-eyed whores, a fake grin that had pacified brain-dead politicians intent on furthering their own money and career. As, indeed, they all were.

“My name,” said the man, taking several steps forward until the firelight illuminated his narrow, wiry, powerful torso, “is Mola. I think you know me well, Narnok of the Axe, Hero of Desekra’s Latrine, Warrior of His Own Dog-dick Ego.”

“Indeed I do,” growled Narnok. “I think you owe me a goodly sum of money, by all the gods!”

“Bollocks! That’s the other way round,” boomed Mola. Lots of growling. The scrabbling of claws on stone.

“Is that Duke and Duchess? Sarge and Thrasher?”

“Yes, it is, Narnok of the Axe. And I think they can smell your ripe blood. And fine blood it is, I am sure, when spilt on the rugs and flags of this brooding mausoleum, on account of serious and large debts unpaid.”

“Well, Mola of the Dogs, I can’t say I’m overly fond of your fucking mangy, flea-bitten mutts, so if you want to let them loose, by the gods, we’ll see how their fangs fare against my sharpened axe blades.” His words echoed from high vaulted marble ceilings. His words reverberated from stone alcoves, and statues, and plinths containing scenes of the Great Depression. Ancient kings and gods and whores stared down at him, stony-eyed, uncaring, merciless.

“Think I might just do that,” said Mola, and there came a sound of scraping leather on leather. “After all. You were the bastard who let me down.”

“Ha! Don’t remember that!” snapped Narnok. “Remember you sticking it up my arse plenty, though.” He smiled a long, low, lizard smile. “Lots and lots. Especially at Skell Docks when we played the dice.”

“Let’s sort it, then, axeman.”

“As you wish.”

“You're
really
going to fight him over an unpaid debt?” hissed Trista in disbelief.

“Aye? What’s the problem with that?”

There came a
snap
of leather, and a frantic snarling and scrabbling of claws on stone. From the gloom, from the horror show, came four terrifying beasts; each was a huge creature, much bigger than a dog had any right to be and stacked with heavy ridges of muscle. Mola’s hounds were vicious, feral and powerful beyond the vision of any normal, canine animal. Like wolves, thought Narnok, with a bitter smile. “Wild, rabid, untrained wolves…”

“I’m with you,” snapped Trista, narrow blade gleaming, protecting Narnok’s weakened side.

“That’s okay,” said Narnok, slipping into a light-headed, almost surreal otherworld of impending combat – as the beasts charged at him, snarling and drooling.

Because he knew;
knew
he had to do it.

He had to kill Mola’s dogs. Then kill Mola.

Then find the force behind the enemy in Zanne.

And kill them, as well.

Kill Mola…

Once, he was your best friend…

Narnok’s face went hard. Harder than stone. Harder than granite. Slammed shut like a portcullis when the enemy breached the bridge.

“So be it,” he rumbled, lifting his axe to meet the charge.

Kiki, Dek and Zastarte pounded down black brick steps, splashed into the sewage and ran on through the darkness. Elf rats pursued them into the gloom, and as the Iron Wolves came to a sharp bend they suddenly waited, whirling about, weapons at the ready. The elf rats came at them in the near total blackness, like monsters from some child’s horror story painted by insane artists high on the honey-leaf. Suddenly, Kiki and Dek leapt to the attack, swords blurring, cutting through flesh with thumps like a butcher cleaving chunks of beef. Blood spattered up the brick walls. Droplets rained down in sewage. Screams echoed from bricks, cutting back and forth, reverberating squeals more animal than human. With savagery and no mercy, Dek and Kiki waded forward, no longer appearing human, their faces seeming to shimmer as Kiki reached down, into the bricks of the ancient tunnel, and felt the energy there, felt the
mana
, and her twin heart beat faster, pumping blood and energy around her veins. Their faces seemed to lengthen, shimmering in a gloomy silvery half-light; lengthened, into muzzles…

And they were fighting with blades, but now with slashing claws, and the elf rats fell back dismayed, their distorted faces with tree-like bulges and bark displacements twisted even more into the grotesque of the deviated elf rat. Suddenly, Dek howled a howl so feral, so savage, it tore through the sewer tunnels and broke the morale of the charging elf rats. They turned as one unit and fled back down through the sewage, boots and claws splashing.

Lights flickered from somewhere high above; some access shaft, some kind of methane release pipe. It flickered on Kiki and Dek and they lowered their faces, which were blurring, shifting, and looked nothing more than perfectly…

human.

“Let’s go,” growled Dek in a voice so low it could have almost been torn from the throat of a wolf.

They ran, despite their injuries, despite their fatigue and battle cramps. They fled back down the sewers, aware that at any moment hundreds more elf rats could flood in and overwhelm them. They were beaten back, they knew. And even worse, they’d lost Narnok and Trista back there; and the thought hung heavy in their hearts, and in their souls.

 

Dawn had broken when they emerged from the evil gash in the earth, and they stood breathing deeply on a plain of rolling hills, a wicked wind slashing across them, biting like pike teeth. They looked at each other, each marked with congealed blood and the flowers of recent bruises, and each bearing a weariness that went bone deep.

“Come on,” said Kiki, coughing out exhaustion like a rock.

“Where the hell to?” snapped Zastarte, whirling on her, his blade up, gore covered, battered, but segments still gleaming. “We’ve got to go back. We have to find another way in. We have to rescue Trista… and Narnok.”

“They don’t need no rescuing, lad,” said Dek, placing a hand on Zastarte’s shoulder.

“And who made you our fucking Captain?” snarled Zastarte in the dull grey light.

“I understand your pain,” said Dek. “You have… feelings, for Trista. You’re worried about her. But we need to… to regroup. To rest. To think. To plan.”

“No,” hissed Zastarte, glaring at Dek; but his teeth clacked shut.

“Dek’s right. We’re no use to anybody like this. We need to rest and plan. Come on.” Kiki started off across the snow, each footstep leaden and weary.

“Where are you going?”

“I know a family who live a few miles from here. They have a farmhouse with a welcoming fire and, I hope above all else, fresh baked bread, butter and a spot of red wine. Hot water would be an incredible bonus.”

Dek and Zastarte glanced at Kiki’s retreating back, then over at the high black walls of Zanne; shut down, closed down, silent and ominous.

“Don’t think we’re leaving her,” said Zastarte, fire in his eyes, “because we’re
not.
”

“Nobody is thinking that, lad,” said Dek, gently, and guided the distraught figure of Zastarte after Kiki, whilst all the time thinking, I knew it, deep down in my heart and soul, I knew it – but didn’t quite believe it. I knew this bastard was capable of some kind of love for something other than his own lustful pleasures, his hard cock and the gleaming gold in his purse; but imagine choosing here, and now, this place, this time, to fall in love with the most savage, man-hating, ball-slicing back-stabbing bitch in the whole of Vagandrak? Not just bad luck, my friend, but an emotion just about ready to get you cut down in an instant.

Dek followed Zastarte, his nose and ribs throbbing, the cold wind biting him like a merciless wolf.

 

The farmhouse, a large white building backed by cobbled yards and five generous barns, was deserted, and there was evidence the occupants had left in a hurry. The front door was half open and snow had piled through into the hallway. Kiki shouted out a few greetings, but there came no answer. The kitchen had items strewn over table and floor, and Kiki bent, lifting a fallen chair and placing it on the flagstone floor with a clack.

“They left in a hurry,” observed Dek.

“I wonder where they went?” said Zastarte, who had calmed down considerably and seemed to have withdrawn into himself, almost in the sulky state of a child who didn’t get what he wanted.

“Maybe they saw the elf rats invading the city,” said Kiki, and turned, kicking the snow from the hallway so she could shut the door and throw across a few bolts.

“We need to check through the rooms,” said Dek. “Make sure everywhere is clear.”

Kiki nodded, and they moved as a unit carefully through the house. Upstairs, there were several chests half full of clothes; obviously intended for departure, but things must have got worse, and worse fast.

In one room, a collection of children’s dolls and teddy bears were spilled on the floor and Kiki stooped, lifting one little ragdoll and stroking the soft hair. She carried it with her as they clomped back down the wooden, uncarpeted stairs.

“At least we can get some sleep,” said Dek, rubbing his exhausted eyes.

Kiki nodded.

“Can we light a fire, is the question that burns me?” said Zastarte. “I could do with a hot bath and a hot sweet drink. I’m beginning to stink like a charnel house. Maybe you peasants don’t mind the dried blood and elf rat brainslop, but I certainly do.”

Zastarte went for wood from the woodshed as Dek used kindling to light a fire in a great iron stove. He rooted through the cupboards and larder, and although many of the supplies had been taken, he found plenty that they could use; two half pigs, cured and salted; onions; potatoes; carrots; some dried and salted fish; some stale loaves of black bread. “This’ll soften nicely in stew,” mumbled Dek, returning with laden arms to the kitchen. Kiki had filled several large brass pans with water from an outside barrel, cracking the icy surface with the hilt of one short sword.

Zastarte appeared, arms laden with wood, and with Dek they piled the black iron range high and soon watched fireflies dancing up the iron pipe. Both men stepped outside, looking up at the chimney where smoke poured free.

“Well, every fucker will know we’re here, now,” said Zastarte, words clipped.

Dek shrugged, and rolled his shoulders. “You know what? That’s a risk I’m willing to take.”

Kiki appeared. “Who’s doing the cooking? I’m damned if you think I’m doing it, just because I’m the only woman present.”