The White Towers (11 page)

Sergeant Tilla lay on his back, looking up at the sky brightening with a pretty winter dawn. Everything was suddenly quiet. Snow started to fall, big fuzzy flakes that turned the world hazy. To his left he could see the Old Opera House, ramshackle and quaint, kept alive by enthusiasts and run by obsessives. To his right, was Old Ma’s Bakery, which in his opinion baked the finest meat and potato pies in the whole of Vagandrak.

He grinned, and there was blood on his teeth.

A figure appeared. He was obviously old and moved with great agony, joints crippled, arthritic – if these creatures could suffer arthritis. He wore a cloak of deep brown, interwoven with thin branches of black wood. He moved to stand before Sergeant Tilla, and he stooped, and stared into Tilla’s bright, feverish eyes.

“How many guards do you have, my son?” he asked.

“Who… who
are you
?”

“I am Bazaroth aea Quazaquiel, Sorcerer to the Elf Rat King, Daranganoth,” spoke the creature, and pulled a long, silver dagger from beneath his brown robes. “Now answer my question, boy, and your end shall be swift.”

Sergeant Tilla cackled, eyes bright, brow narrowing into a frown. “Go on, fuck you, elf rat.”

“I can make your ending swift and painless!”

“Fuck off! I want it hard and painful; only that way will I get to hunt your kind in the afterlife. So do your worst, you toxic piece of shit. I welcome every fucking second of it. Welcome it, you
hear
?!” he screamed.

Bazaroth looked up at the elf rats. “Move on. Progress. Kill and conquer. Take the city,” he said, and the elf rats moved on over the corpses of the slain city guards. Then he looked down at Sergeant Tilla, with something akin to pity in his ancient, bark-woven face.

His black bark lips seemed to writhe for a moment. Then Bazaroth aea Quazaquiel gave a modest smile.

“Our final moments will be intimate,” he said, and seated himself cross-legged beside the wounded body of Sergeant Tilla. “I will give you what you ask for.”

 

It took Drakerath, the capital city of Vagandrak, two days to fall. The fighting was vicious, bloody, and relentless. Finally, the city gates were closed and the city itself descended into silence. Nobody entered. Nobody left.

 

It took Vagan a little while longer, mainly because of the garrisons of King’s Guard stationed in the Keep. But even that, after hours of bloody, relentless fighting, was overrun. Many soldiers were hung by the neck from the city walls, eyes bulging, bowels hanging down beneath their boots like some obscene painting from
The Abattoir Monologues
. Finally, the city gates slammed shut. Huge bolts, wider than a man, were slid into place with grating squeals. And the country’s war capital, to all intents and purposes, became a silent, mourning, motionless graveyard.

 

And Zanne. Zanne was the last to fall. The high black gates – the northern Corpsefield Gate, the eastern Winter Gate, and the southern Royal Gate – all were shut with resounding thuds, like the heavy stone lids slammed on a massive, desolate, sealed stone tomb.

 

Mola sat in a rough wooden chair at a rough wooden table outside his villa, listening to the sway of the trees, his legs warming in the weak sunshine, and thought about the pain. It nagged him worse than any fish woman at the market whom he’d bedded and cast aside. It throbbed inside him, worse than any physical invasion of a blade he’d ever had to deal with – and that number measured quite a few. From bottom to top, his left knee was barely weight-supporting, and was raised with angry purple bruises. His left thigh, from knee to hip, was one huge bruise like a lightning filled sky during a summer storm. His hip, surprisingly, had survived the impact, but under his left tit two ribs were broken and constantly clicking, forcing Mola to adopt a slightly effete posture where he cupped his left wrist under his breast, pressing his ribs to offer some modest external support. Above that, his breast bone also clicked when he moved in any way whatsoever, bringing a curse to his lips from the gentlest of manoeuvres. The back of his shoulder and neck was a mass of throbbing, rigid, humming tendons, a cauldron of intense agonies, a platter of pain that made him grin like an idiot and curse like a sailor. But the final reigning glory was his left shoulder – or more precisely, the
tip
of his shoulder where one major part of the impact had occurred. His physician had called it a possible “rotator cuff injury”, and he was glad to have had that told to him, but to Mola it was simply the place that, when pressed even gently, made him squeal like a virgin pig having the sacrificial spit-roast spear thrust up its nethermost. He continually attempted to press that area of his shoulder, searching for some improvement. It made him scream every time. And yet, every single damn day, as if in some perverse search for personal masochism and redemption, he’d probe gently at the shoulder, dancing around the fiery hot area until morbid curiosity finally championed and he dug in a finger. “Aiiieee,” was normally the retort, and further curses, which highlighted why he should be doing exactly what his physician advised and bloody resting.

The problem was, Mola wasn’t the sort of man to rest easy. That’s what happened when you not only trained the fighting dogs for the Red Thumb Gangs, but ran the most lucrative illegal dog-fighting pit in the whole of Vagandrak. Called
The Dogs,
it was a
class
pit. Only the best for Mola’s fighting dogs. And if you didn’t like it? If you were an awkward motherfucker? Well, you got
fed
to the dogs.

His right hand came over and pressed tentatively at his ribs. Something went
click
. “Son of a bastard’s bitch’s bastard,” he muttered, face scowling, dark shaggy brows meeting in the centre, lank ragged hair tossing about his broad round head. “Fucking horses. Fucking stallions. Fucking wagers!”

“You still sore, boss?”

“Yes, Carrion. I am still fucking sore.”

Carrion scrunched up his face. “Well, it’s been a whole week, boss.”

Mola gave Carrion a look that would have had the little man cut into pieces and fed to the meat-eating fishes of the harbour. Or the eels. Yes. Definitely the eels. They consumed bones more readily than a pen full of hungry pigs.

“I’m just saying,” muttered the little man, backing away and exiting the villa’s easy room carrying a tray with empty glasses, each stained with a residue of whiskey sweat.

Mola sat, enjoying the rays of the dying sun, for what little enjoyment he could feel. The problem was, and this was a common problem, he’d been drunk. Not drunk as a lord, but certainly drunk as a whore. Drunk was something Mola did well. Hell. Drunk was something Mola fucking
loved.
Not so drunk he couldn’t function; oh no. What would be the point of that? But drunk enough to furnish him with… a unique
perspective
in any given situation. Drunk enough to be brave about any situation. Drunk enough to face a blade, or shove a blade into another man’s guts. Drunk enough to care – fuck it. To Care with a big C.

Mola felt sour, and bad, and cold. His head felt dark and bad and maudlin. He thought back over long bitter years and remembered better times, the good people he’d known, the good times he’d enjoyed. And he thought about those good times turned sour. He thought about those good people he’d known stabbing him in the back and fucking him over. And he thought about the bad times. Shit. There had been a lot.

“Damn you,” he cursed, and wriggled, trying to get comfy.

Carrion entered, and moved slowly to Mola. He handed the man some small white tablets. “Time you took these,” he said.

“I don’t like to. They addle a man’s brain.”

“You need the relief,” said Carrion, with some sympathy, his compact, dark features contorting.

“Thank you. What would I do without you?”

“Die under the blades of the Red Thumb Gangs?”

“Yes. Thanks for reminding me of that one.”

“Do I also need to remind you of the fight?”

“No.”

“So the dogs are ready?”

“My dogs are always ready,” growled Mola, his own voice more reminiscent of the hounds he trained than any human sound a man should utter. His brows formed into a savage scowl and Carrion closed his mouth with a clack of teeth. He’d worked for Mola for ten years, but knew even that was not enough. Never enough. The Red Thumb Gangs believed they controlled Mola and the dog fighting pit he ran on their behalf; but in reality, Mola was a man apart; the sort of man who nobody truly ran, or owned, or controlled – despite appearances. Mola did not feel fear. He felt pain, yes; every fucker felt pain. But fear? Fear was something that happened to other people.

Mola rocked several times, then managed to gain his feet with only a minimum of rich and inventive swearing. His head snapped round and his small dark eyes pierced Carrion. “What the fuck are you looking at?”

“I was merely contemplating your recently increased elegance.”

Mola processed this. “You cheeky little bastard. You want to spend five minutes with Thrasher?”

Carrion smiled a narrow smile and took a step back. “Of course, Mola, I should know better than to poke even the slightest bit of fun at you. You are currently a man
without
a sense of humour.”

“Currently? Poke fun at me, cunt, and I’ll feed you to the dogs on the next betting match down at the pit. See how long you last against Duchess, Duke and Sarge. Make a fucking bit of fun out of that one whilst they’re tearing your thigh muscles from your quivering fucking leg bones.”

“Yes, Mola. Sorry, Mola; don’t know what came over me.”

“It’ll be my dogs coming over you, you fucker, if you think you can take the piss out of me!”

Carrion retreated. Mola felt bad. Carrion wasn’t a bad man. Problem was, you showed a bit of weakness in this life and every cuntfuck decided they’d take a slice of you for fucking dessert. And Mola wasn’t a man who liked having slices taken from him. Not without a bit of raspberry jam on the end of his blade, that was for sure.

“Son of a bitch!” he cursed, making it to the end of the porch. Beyond, he could see his stables. A dog howled, and was quickly silenced. Mola grinned. That was Duke. Or “Big Duke”, as Mola liked to call him during fights in
The Dogs
. Thirty-nine pit fights and unbeaten. Problem was, now he could only get shit odds so Mola had taken to travelling with the mutt, pitching him in other cities as an Unnamed. It didn’t help that Duke, or Big Duke, carried a fair few scars; but then, Mola was an old dog himself, and had a few tricks up his sleeve. He was currently a dab-hand with a make-up brush.

Clutching his ribs, the modest-sized man hobbled across the well-kept lawns towards the stables. As he approached, they heard him and began to bark, and howl, and keen at his impending arrival. This filled him with a deep pride and love and a fierce warrior calling. And what he loved most about his dogs, and dogs in general, was their unstinting love for Man. No matter how depraved and twisted a fucker was, in the flesh, in the bone, in the mind, the Dog still loved him. Unequivocally. Without forethought. Without judgement. A dog didn’t care what colour you were, what sex you were, what deformities you carried, what crimes you had perpetrated. He
committed
to you, and remained loyal to you. And that fucking bonding was stronger than blood. Stronger than fucking family. Hell, Mola had nephews and nieces he’d happily fucking cut up during family get-togethers; cuntfucks whom he wouldn’t piss on if they were on fire for their crimes against humanity and stupidity and the basic law of moral righteousness. Cuntfucks who would have been better on a noose, swinging, such was their misguided basic misunderstanding of the way the universe and the stars and shit worked.

Mola tutted to himself, and reached the door to the stables.

Those motherfuckers, he thought.

He leaned against the wood, panting a little bit. The pain in his ribs was still a bastard, jabbing him like a stiletto dagger through the guts. He paused, panting and licking his lips, and looked down into a trough of water.

You’re not a pretty man, he thought, eyeing the narrow, pointed features, the brown hair receding to grey at the temples.

Mola was not a big man. He was modest in height, modest in the broadness of his chest, modest in girth. But he was strong, under that modest exterior. Stronger than a farrier. Harder than a labourer. But it only took one look in those hard, uncompromising eyes to know he didn’t take no shit. No shit from nobody. Never. Ever. Not once. Not fucking once. Mola was not a big man, but he was a Big Man. He’d stab an evil girlfriend in the belly if she crossed him. He’d slit his best friend’s throat over a betrayal. Because he had morals, y’see. And honour. A criminal nobility. He didn’t fuck people over, and if you fucked him over then you’d crossed the line, and if you crossed the line, you’d better fucking watch your back.

“Getting old,” he muttered to himself, and forced his way forward through pulsing waves of pain and into the cool, calm, pungent area of the stables beyond.

And then, of course, there was that special thing.

The Iron Wolves?

Yes. He was one of the Iron Wolves. Or had been.

And he was special, even in such exalted company.

Special indeed.

His dogs came to him. Each one was big, a wolfhound cross, each with different breeds in various experiments at strength and stamina and ferocity. There was Duchess, the most savage bitch he’d ever met; black and white in patches, her eyes as intelligent as any fucking human he’d ever met. She wasn’t the biggest he’d ever bred or fought, but she was clever; damn clever. And he really identified with her, being less than massive himself and recognising a kindred spirit. She was modest in size, but clever and ferocious and unstoppable. Just like Mola.