The White Towers (34 page)

“So why fuck men then?”

Zastarte gave a sideways grin. “That’s a different story,” he said.

“And? I suppose this is the part where you had an epiphany?”

“Not at all. This is the bit where I started to go mad. I’d kidnap young women from well-to-do families. Usually fuck the mother first, because there’s many a fifty year-old who has a husband grown content on his money and lands and privileges, and is too busy drinking the port and brandy and not giving Lady Whatshername her weekly slick spice of life; fuck the mother, create a shield, take the daughter. Fuck her. Sometimes. But this went beyond sex. This was about…”

“What was it about?” said Kiki, softly.

Zastarte sighed. “I despised them.”

“The women?”

“Hell no! Not the women. The people. The fucking people. All of them. There’s so much self-righteousness. So much self-importance. So much arrogance. So much fake pride and feeling and self-fucking-love and pathetic puking self-pity; they feel they’re better than everybody else when the only thing that’s true and right is that we’re all born from the shit and the slime, and we’re all going back to the shit and the slime. Society creates a fake veneer. People think they’re better than others. Looking down on their neighbours and friends and family. They think they’re more… deserving. Richer. Cleverer. More educated. Higher social standing. But you know what, Kiki, and I mean this with all sincerity, from a hundred lessons learned in my little dungeon, when little rich boys and little rich girls learned, oh how they fucking learned, to leave behind their arrogance and wealth and social standing and fucking focus, FOCUS on the important things in life – like how to stay alive. Well, they were learning. And I was learning. About nature. Human nature. About the nature of the beast and oh, how that beast has changed. And I realised. We have to go back to basics. We have to regress. We have to lose the fake icing sugar coating of society and civilisation – and make it real again.”

“You want us to regress?”

“Is it really a regression? Ha. Well. Yes. Whatever. Ironic, that’s me, a creature of the King’s Court, a creature of lace and perfume and alcohol and oral sex; a beast of the hedonistic virtues of court and parties and afterplay; ironic that such as me would want to return to simple virtues. Home baked bread. A warm hearth. Children. Education.”

Kiki considered this.

“So, Prince Zastarte, it took the torture of innocent people with blade and fire, to make you realise you wanted to be a part of the human race again?”

Zastarte faced her, and with absolutely no irony or sarcasm, gave a single nod. “Yes.”

“And you fell in love?”

“I fell in love with our species. I’ll rephrase that. I
refound
love with our species. And then I started to watch Trista, and to learn about
her
, and to understand what she was, and what she carried. And I knew that if it worked then I could make her happy. I could take two negative, self-despising, downtrodden bastards – and turn them into a positive force for progression and harmony.”

“And you believe that?”

“With all my heart.”

“And you think Trista will reciprocate your love?”

Zastarte grinned, and some of his old humour and anarchy and chaos returned. Bizarrely, Kiki was pleased to witness it so.

“Maybe. One day. Or I’ll die trying.”

“You’ll die trying?”

Zastarte gave a nod. “Most definitely.”

 

The morning was a cold bleak grey bastard.

They rode, suffering the cold and the pain of the saddle. They suffered the cutting bite of the wind. And as miles and miles passed under iron shod hooves, so the cold ate into them, and wore them down, and worried them like an unworthy, scabby dog. They camped again in a dead forest, then a night later in a ring of rocks as a howling wind like a raped banshee screeched and howled amongst the stones, making them cover their ears lest they suffer permanent damage.

On the next morn, after an hour of weary riding and still heading north of Zanne, they reached the edge of the Salt Plains.

Dek dismounted, and knelt on one knee, touching the line of sizzling snow that greeted them. He looked left, and right, where the zig-zagging line of bubbling snowmelt careered away, offering a very distinct borderline.

Dek glanced back at Kiki, and raised his eyebrows.

Kiki shrugged.

“It’s the salt,” said Zastarte.

“Eh?”

“No ice or snow can survive here. It’s a desert of salt. We used to come here on manoeuvres.”

“You
did?”

“Aye. Didn’t you?”

“Nah. I knew the fuckers in charge of the rotas. We made sure we spent most of the time whoring, gambling, or having nice easy rides through Tulska Forest. Why the fuck would we want to come to this desolate, harsh, life-bleaching shit hole?”

“To
train
?” said Zastarte, in moderate disbelief.

“Nah. That’s bollocks. Harsh environment? Ha! It’s all about your state of mind.”

Now it was Zastarte’s turn to smile. “All right then,
pit fighter.
I’m looking forward to seeing your state of mind over the next few days when the salt kicks in.”

Dek shrugged. “I’ve been through worse,” he rumbled.

“We’ll see.”

Bizarrely, as they now travelled, despite the icy, biting wind, the hard-packed salt landscape radiated a little heat, as if it were some kind of battery that had stored energy all summer and was now releasing it to combat the dropping temperatures. Despite the hard-packed nature of the earth, a solid white crust, the wind still managed to kick up biting dust, which proved to be even more invasive than the snow of previous hours. It got into boots and sock and trews; it got into the creases of joints and acted as an abrasive. Within hours, all the Iron Wolves were starting to curse inventively.

And then Dek, who was riding point, hauled up his mount. He’d dampened a rag – an old torn shirt – and tied it around the gelding’s nostrils to protect it from the wind-blown salt. The beast gave a muffled whinny, fighting his command for a few moments, and then settled down. Dek stared at the vision before him.

“Gods,” he said, stroking his stubble.

“The Ships,” nodded Zastarte.

“Eh, lad?”

“The Ships,” said Zastarte, as if that, indeed, was enough.

All three stared for a long time at the huge, rearing edifice which emerged from the salt plain, like a rearing, storm-tossed vessel trapped in a sudden ice-freeze. It speared towards the sky like a lance, and was vast, bigger than ten houses; bigger than fifty. The whole edifice was a scarred matt black, as if the diagonal “
ship”
was cast from a huge single block of black iron, and yet showed no rust. Huge icicles hung from the prow, high up against the chilled grey sky, and formed long glittering stalactites from gantries and decks. Both ice and wind-blown salt had etched weird concentric patterns into the surface of this ancient, shipwrecked vessel; if indeed, it was a vessel.

Dek tilted his head. “That’s just weird,” he said, finally.

“I see images in the patterns; old lovers. Distant cousins. Lost aunties.” Zastarte’s face showed pain, his eyes narrowing.

“Aren’t they one and the same thing?”

Zastarte flashed him a dirty look. “Dick.”

Dek shrugged, and looked to Kiki. “I suggest we ride on. This place feels like, well, a cross between a fucking mausoleum and a supernatural tableau from beyond the grave. It gives me the creeps.”

“You?” Kiki fixed him with a stern stare. “Lord of the Fighting Pits, frightened by a big black lump of immobile iron?”

“Get fucked. You’re taking the piss.”

“You’re giving it away.”

“Must be the effect of this place. Tell me we’re moving on.”

“Night’s closing in.”

“Kiki.” Serious. “This realm is haunted.”

“No. This realm is savage, and could murder us if we don’t find shelter. Look down there, near the base. There are what look like caves. They may even be tunnels that lead inside.”

Dek stared at her, aghast. “You cannot seriously be thinking about going
inside
that thing?” His eyes travelled from the wide squat base, where ridges of iron ploughed beneath the rolling salt dunes, slowly, up the great sweeping flanks to the almost pointed pinnacle. At regular intervals, running away at odd disjointed angles, were what looked like decks with rails. He could see, now, why Zastarte had called it a ship. But how the hell did it get here? And how, in the name of the Seven Sisters, had it ended up with half its arse under the ground? And don’t get him started on how they made iron float. It was impossible…

He shivered. “I say we cut west, cut out this shit, suffer the marshes and swamps.”

“No. We stay. We endure. We survive. Then we head east, after Renza.”

“Ah yes,
another
godforsaken shit-hole.”

It was Kiki’s turn to shrug, and she dug in heels, cantered her horse forward. The iron edifice loomed above her, getting bigger, and bigger, and bigger, until it finally seemed to block out the sky. Her nostrils twitched, and she could smell something tangy and metallic, and the bad smell of old oil. The wind made little mournful sounds, each one the tiny sigh of a pleasured woman. Kiki tilted her head, listened, and the sighs became a song at the same time random and yet synchronised. It was beautiful, and it was terrible, and it was almost indescribably eerie.

She dismounted, and heard Dek and Zastarte dismount behind her. The horses seemed strangely calm, and they hobbled the creatures, moving towards one of the round black openings. Without thinking, Kiki drew her short sword and glanced back, past Dek and Zastarte, over the rolling salt dunes, which stirred, gently, disturbed by the wind and constantly moving.

Dek and Zastarte drew their own weapons, and the three Iron Wolves moved into the gloomy opening, their faces grim.

 

It was a short tunnel, with a floor that sloped upwards and which kinked in the middle, leading to a cubic room of magnificent intricacy. It was dry and unmolested by the elements, save for a small scattering of salt at the entrance, and its lack of molestation was probably due to the upward slope. Kiki stopped so fast Dek bumped into her, and they all gazed about, eyes wide. The interior surface, every single millimetre, was covered in an array of brass pipes and valves, dials and wheels, a thousand different tiny mechanisms connected to other pipes and funnels and dials. They covered the entirety of all the walls, even the ceiling, each metal polished surface gleaming. Kiki cast about, but could see no other entrance or exit from the room.

“There are no doors,” observed Zastarte.

“This can’t be it,” rumbled Dek. “The exterior is vast!”

Kiki shrugged. “Matters little. It’s a place to shelter.”

“This is amazing.” Dek stood, staring around like a child in the world’s largest sweet shop. “Truly amazing. It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen.”

Kiki frowned. “I feel like we’re inside a machine.”

“Maybe we are,” said Zastarte, voice soft.

Kiki snorted, and headed back to the short corridor. The others followed her, and watched the swirling, violent clouds moving across the sky. They towered, and formed columns, and howled in the distance.

“What the fuck am I looking at?” snapped Dek.

“A storm to end all storms,” said Zastarte.

“A big one, then?”

“Oh yes.”

They covered the horses’ muzzles with damp cloths and brought them, stomping and agitated, into the tunnel, as huge yellow bruises lined the horizon. Distantly, banshees wailed, and Kiki stood as Dek and Zastarte went to cook supper. She watched demons dancing through the sky. She watched Sky Gods pissing on the realm of mortal man.

“Come on,” she muttered, eyes wide. “Bring it on.”

“That’s a bad situation,” observed Zastarte. “I’ve seen desert storms like this before, during training. They can leave hundreds dead.”

“That’s the desert,” said Kiki.

“This is extremely similar.”

“We shall see.”

The storm came in fast, howling like demons across the salt dunes. The blast slammed against the hull of the ship with animal ferocity, screaming metallic wails and squirting up the tunnel like an ocean wave breaking down a barrier.

Kiki was the last to retreat, backing up past the horses, which stood subdued, ears flat against long skulls, hooves stamping, voices stressed with low growls and whinnies. Kiki watched the salt come smashing in, and retreated towards the brass room and the others, and their prison cell of tiny machines. The sloped floor hurt her ankles when she walked, and the gleam of the brass was annoying. It was too neat. Too perfect. A machine room from a different age; now derelict, defunct. Beautiful and impressive, yes, but nothing more than a pretty ornament. Ultimately, useless.

Dek was sat in the middle of the sloping floor. He leaned back on his pack against a bank of vertical gleaming pipes. He scowled at Kiki. “This is bad shit going down.”

“Relax.”

“And what if the storm lasts a month? In the desert they do, sometimes. People die from lack of water. How much bloody water have we got?”

“Not enough for a month,” said Kiki.

“Exactly.”

“Relax. One day at a time.”

They slept. And they awoke. And outside, the storm still howled, raging. Dek and Zastarte went down to the entrance but were driven immediately back. There was a definite reason the Salt Plains were uninhabited. They were uninhabitable. And this sort of natural shit proved the point beyond any sort of doubt.

“So why are we here?” said Zastarte.

“It’s the quickest way,” said Kiki.

“Not if this storm lasts a fucking month, it isn’t,” he said.

“Exactly.”