The White Towers (26 page)

From the corner of an alley strode a huge elf rat, easily two heads taller than Narnok, and much wider at the shoulders. He carried a mighty hammer of oak and iron, with thick banding and brass studs the size of a man’s fist. He was limping slightly, one leg longer than the other, and was bald, his skin coarse and grey, his eyes red like berries in a face that was oval, and smooth, like old polished ash.

This creature, this giant amongst elf rats, accelerated suddenly at Narnok who gazed up, mouth actually open, as the huge hammer raised above the elf rat’s head and it leapt at him; Narnok side-stepped, axe lashing out to be batted aside by a forearm brace forged from iron. Sparks flew. The hammer thundered against the cobbles, making the whole street seem to shake and cracking ten of the rounded stones. Narnok staggered, then leapt back as the hammer was jerked into a horizontal strike that nearly crushed him against a wall. Instead, it completely removed the edge of a brick house and bricks toppled out like rock-fall, the house groaning as it sagged on old rotten timbers. Narnok’s axe came up in both hands, and he backed away, the elf rats lumbering around and grinning at him, some with evil curved fangs as long as a man’s forearm.

The huge hammer swung again, and Narnok felt the rush of displaced air as he dodged, and struck out with his own weapon. Again, the axe was blocked against steel-shod braces, and the elf rat dived forward, a sudden movement, and a heavy fist blow slammed into Narnok’s chest, accelerating the big axeman backwards, axe skittering across the ground, spinning, as he landed, then rolled, and finally slid to a stop. He looked up, thunder in his face, and spat on the cobbles under his chin. He climbed slowly to his feet, clutching his side where he felt at least two ribs broken. He could not breathe and gasped in little pockets of air, like a child taking medicine. The elf rat strode towards him, swinging the hammer, intention clear. He was going to crush Narnok like a bug.

Narnok limped towards his axe, and the elf rat gave a deep, booming laugh, increasing its pace. The huge hammer swung up as Narnok staggered, almost falling, fingers stretching for his axe… and then everything seemed to happen so fast it was a blur, and the hammer swung around but Narnok tripped, sprawling, fingers curling around the haft as the elf rat’s hammer thundered close-by over his head and Narnok curled into a ball as the elf rat skidded past, and the butterfly blades lashed out, razor steel slicing through ankle tendons with tiny popping sounds, hamstringing the huge creature.

The elf rat roared as his tendons were cut, and went down on one knee, twisting, hand going to the injury at the back of its ankle as Narnok rolled free of hammer range, stood, glanced around. Trista was in the doorway to an old factory, beckoning him, as he limped to the huge elf rat and slammed his axe in a massive overhead blow – and into its head. He tugged the blade free, front-kicked the elf rat – still howling, still not dead – onto its back, huge hammer slipping from twitching fingers with a meaty clang, then limped as fast as he could to the doorway, slipping into the dark huge space beyond. Trista slammed the portal and turned a huge key in the lock, then started dragging some large chests from nearby as Narnok leaned against the wall, wheezing.

“Bloody help then, you big oaf!” she snapped, grunting and dragging a second battered chest of old, stained wood. It scraped and squealed across ancient, warped floorboards.

“I… don’t think I can,” said Narnok, mouth forming an “O”.

“Is this the Big Man brought low by a single punch?” snapped Trista.

Narnok met her gaze, and her mouth clacked shut. Narnok was hurt, and hurting bad. He smiled gently and gave a small nod. “There’s always somebody bigger and tougher. First rule of life. But you know what? I don’t think I ever found him, until now.”

Trista dragged various extra chests and heavy boxes of old, rusted tools and bolts, piling them high, sweat beading on brow and upper lip. When she was satisfied, she moved to Narnok, hand on his shoulder.

“What are your injuries, old man?”

He gave another smile, and decided not to point out he was only two years Trista’s senior. “He broke my fucking ribs with that punch. Two. Maybe three. And cracked a couple of others. Maybe even cracked my sternum. It fucking hurts to breathe. I doubt I can run.”

“Anything else?”

“I have a fucking bad headache, but I’m suspecting that’s more to do with the situation and the lack of a fine drop of brandy,” growled the axeman. He jacked himself off the wall, hissing through clenched teeth.

“Spit,” said Trista.

“Eh, lass?”

“
Spit.
There, on the floor. We need to know if a lung is punctured by your rattling ribs.”

Narnok spat, but it was white.

Trista nodded. “Good. Can’t have you running around gurgling on your own claret. You’d slow us down.”

Narnok threw her a nasty sideways glare. “Nice to see you care.” He spat again, just to be sure. “Still. Come on. We need to get moving. Get out of here. Those bastards will be through that door real soon.”

“Agreed. But we move slow, and we move quiet. Stealth is our ally.”

Narnok nodded, hefted his mighty axe, and winced like a broken child. Then he gestured for Trista to lead the way, and limped along after her, his left arm cradled under his ribcage, pressing tight as if to hold it in place. He found it helped. A little.

They moved through the gloom. Huge machines smelling of old bad oil loomed through the half-light.

“What is this place?” whispered Narnok.

“I’ve no idea. But it stinks bad, Narn.”

“We need to find Kiki and the others.”

“They headed south,” said Trista, with a twitch at the corner of her mouth.

“Oh no,” said Narnok. “Don’t be thinking fucking thoughts like that, bitch. They didn’t abandon us. They did what they had to do. We was cut in half by a wedge, right? They went one way, we went the other. It’s the law of the jungle. The shit of battle. It’s what happens time and again, and you just deal with it, and get on with it. We’re here together, and we look after each other
now
. Right?”

“Right, Narnok,” said Trista, curiously submissive in the gloom. He squinted. That wasn’t like her. He’d expected an argument.

They continued in silence, the huge, disused factory gradually giving way to a warehouse with a vaulted ceiling containing high steel walkways and thick chimneys, which reared up, disappearing through the roof. Water dripped down, slowly, rhythmically, in a hundred separate locations. And weak shafts of moonlight came through a broken roof at random intervals. Old engine oil sat as a low-level undercurrent to their twitching nostrils, mixed with a fresh breeze and smell of snow, and something else; something like the scent of a forest, but just that little bit corrupt.

“Old leaves,” said Narnok, eventually.

“What?”

“The smell. It’s old leaves.”

Trista stared at him. “If you say so.”

They journeyed on, through a huge complex of warehouse buildings that led to smaller and smaller buildings, all linked, all deserted and filled with ancient machinery, worn and battered crates and boxes. The place was damp and cold, seeping into their bones after a prolonged period.

“I hate it here,” said Trista, rubbing her cheek and leaving a dark smudge. “I want to go back outside.”
 “It’s safer in here,” said Narnok, pausing and leaning against a wall. Trista stared at him, and understanding settled across her shoulders like ash from a forest fire, infusing her mind like a poultice, and she
understood
. Narnok was injured worse than he liked to admit. And Narnok was the rock-solid backbone, the indisputable solid iron core of the Iron Wolves. But he was weaker, now. He was injured. Battered. And he recognised in himself that he had bent, just a little. He had not just taken a physical beating, he had taken a mental one, too. Once, he had waded amongst the enemy, cutting heads and limbs free, Godlike, seemingly untouchable; the odd scratch, the odd flesh wound, but leaving a trail of fucking corpses wide as a river. This encounter with the elf rats had shaken him up. Taught him a bit of humility. Taught him a bit of mortality. And, well, that could never be a bad thing.

“Come on,” said Trista, gently, and they passed through more silent buildings.

Outside, distantly, presumably beyond the walls of Zanne, a wolf howled. Narnok and Trista exchanged glances.

“They’ll get out,” said Narnok.

“Kiki, Dek and Zastarte?”

He nodded.

“Then we need to get out as well.”

“We need to reach the sewer.”

They climbed various ramps and ladders, heading in what they thought was the right direction through the linked, deserted old factory buildings. Finally, they came to a door that led out onto a ledge.

Dawn was breaking, yellow fingers crawling over the horizon like a claw over a cracked egg.

They eased themselves towards a rusted iron barrier, Narnok grunting in pain, and peered over. Trista thought,
that’s not like Narnok. Hurting so much. So brittle, now. Something has crumbled inside him. Something has broken. Like corrupt clockwork in a smashed watch.

Light raced across the city of Zanne. The many elf rats out in the street lifted their heads, as if relishing the winter sunlight; taking it into themselves, absorbing the positive energy. Feeding on it, like a tree welcoming life and light.

“There,” said Trista, pointing.

It was Bazaroth aea Quazaquiel, who had briefly introduced himself to the Iron Wolves. Briefly. Far too briefly. He was talking to the crowd of elf rats, gesticulating wildly. Trista’s shaft was still embedded in his eye. The small, bent, ancient sorcerer seemed not to notice. Then, an elf rat in the crowd pointed and made various comments. There came a long pause, where Bazaroth simply stared, saying nothing.

The old sorcerer reached up, and pulled the arrow from his eye socket. There was a distant little
schlup.
Bazaroth threw the arrow down in disgust, and faced the elf rats, mouth working wildly, words drifting like so much distant campfire smoke.

Narnok slumped to the ground and placed his back against the low wall.

“Narn? Are you well?” Trista knelt by the huge axeman.

Slowly, his eyes closed and he slumped to the side. Trista saw blood leaking out onto the old bricks.

“Shit,” she snarled, and ripped open his jerkin. Not only were there huge purple bruises up his side and across his chest, there was a knife wound in his abdomen. Blood was oozing out, running down his flesh, dripping to the old bricks. “Oh, you stupid, stupid fucker,” she said.

Below, the elf rats roared, and several waved swords and spears in the air. Bazaroth seemed unconcerned that he’d recently taken Trista’s arrow in his eye socket. The old cunt. She returned to Narnok, now slumped sideways and unconscious. She tried to move him, but he was damn well too heavy. Grunting, she dragged him a little, rolled him onto his back. By the gods, he fucking weighed an awful lot. Like his bones were made from solid iron. Or calcified stone.

She tore open his jerkin and shirt, and observed the wound proper.

“Oh, Narnok,” she said, and quickly checked the rest of his huge, bloody carcass for serious cuts. “You should have told me sooner.”

In the streets below, deep in the Haven, the elf rats dispersed. Distantly, Trista could see the stone steps from which they had emerged from their sewer entry.

Now, between her and Narnok and the steps, there must have been five hundred elf rats. They were out in force thanks to the Iron Wolves’ violent incursion. Patrolling the streets. Searching for the living. Searching for more Vagandrak
humans.

Shit.

And as the sun rose over Zanne, so Trista pulled free a small medical pack, and licking the end of a white thread, fed it on the third attempt through the eye of a curved needle.

“I’ll make you good again, Big Man. You see if I don’t,” she said.

 

Narnok walked along the winding road under the broad spread of old oak trees. It had been raining, but now the sun was out, sparkling through wet leaves and playing patterns of shadow across the smooth black surface. Narnok’s strides were long, and strong, and he felt powerful and filled with youth; with a raw power he hadn’t felt in…
decades.
He stopped by a pear tree and, reaching up, twisted two ripe fruits, biting into one, sweet juice running down into his beard. He carried on walking, up the winding road to his large white house, and as he came close, so she stood in the doorway, back arched, lips pouting, radiating beauty in a stunning display that left Narnok’s mouth dry and knees weak and cock hard.

“Katuna,” he breathed, pear juice sweet on his lips, and he quickened his pace, for it had been a long time, and she giggled at his approach, dark eyes flashing, head tossing back her mane of long, black curls.

He reached her trembling, animal figure, and lifting his hand, gently stroked a finger across her olive skin. “Katuna, I missed you,” rumbled the warrior, Hero of the War of Zakora, the Axeman of Splintered Bones, Axe Master of Desekra; and Katuna made a noise, half purr, half mewl, and threw her arms around his neck, stretching up a little, kissing him with those full sensuous red lips. Her tongue darted in just a little, a tease, and he groaned as her hand dropped and stroked his inner thigh.

Narnok bent and scooped her up. She gave a giggle, arms draped around his neck, fingers dangling, kissing him on the lips and cheeks and forehead as he strode inside the house, back kicking the door shut. He started for the bedroom, but only made it to halfway up the stairs before they were ripping at one another’s clothes in passion. And then he held her, and he was inside her, and the whole world was a warm good safe haven, and the rest of the world – the battles, the army, cruelty, monsters – all of it melted away as they made love and he smelled the musk of her olive skin and he was there again, where he belonged, back with his wonderful wife Katuna.