The White Towers (33 page)

“Breakneck Prison?” Trista raised her eyebrows. She actually looked interested.

“Aye,” rumbled Narnok. “To the north of here, beyond Zanne Keep and the Gardens of the Winter Moon. It borders the Factory Quarter. Big ugly long building, it is, letting the factory workers gaze on it day and night, reminding them where they’ll end up if they’re bad little boys and girls.”

“Yes. I’ve done my time there.” Randaman gave a cough, and looked around at the group. “In fact, most of us have.”

Narnok frowned. “Are there men and women still in there? That’d be a good fighting body, if we could get them out.”

Randaman scratched his chin. “Not sure, old boy. It’s locked down worse than the city gates. Silent in there, it is. No signs of life. A few of the Red Thumbs have circled it, looking for survivors. Want to bring them back here.”

“Really?” said Narnok.

“A good fighter’s a good fighter, especially when the odds are stacked against you.” Randaman gave him a bleak smile, and suddenly Narnok saw beyond the mask. Yes, he was a dandy, a powerful sub-leader, perhaps, answerable only to the Red Thumb Gangs’ higher echelons. But here, and now, the world and Zanne, this
enclosed
and sectioned off little microcosm, had become a level playing field. It was no longer City Guards versus the Red Thumb Gangs. Suddenly, a new and powerful adversary had been tossed into the mix; one that seemed to kill indiscriminately. Suddenly, enemies were now friends as they worked against a common foe – a common foe that was, seemingly, unstoppable.

“After we came out the sewers,” said Narnok, carefully, “we ended up in this big fight with these elf rat bastards. And there was this one, old he was, they moved out of his way as if he was a king or a wizard…”

“I put an arrow through his eye,” said Trista, softly. “But he seemed unperturbed by a good Vagandrak shaft in his brain.” She gave a grim smile.

“A wizard,” said Narnok again, his eye widening. “By the name of Beza... Baza...”

“Bazaroth,” said Randaman. “Bazaroth aea Quazaquiel. He is one of their ancient order, and personal sorcerer to the elf rat king, Daranganoth.”

“So he’s leading the elf rats, here?”

Randaman shrugged. “We have seen him from afar. It certainly appears that way, although there is another, more military in his bearing. We have heard the name Namash, and he is referred to as a general. Who knows how these creatures operate?”

“Well, I propose a plan,” said Narnok, grinning. Something touched his cheek, an insect, or a drift of dust. He rubbed at the scar tissue there.

“And what would that be?”

“These rats in charge, they will be holed up at Zanne Keep. It’s central, it’s fortified; if I know Yoon, he’d have it stitched up tighter than a back-handed jewellery robbery by the City Watch.”

“And you propose?”

“We take the Keep.”

“What?”

“You heard, Randaman.”

Randaman glanced at Mola, his smile widening with incredulity. “You hear that, Mola? Does that sound like a good plan to you?”

Again, something touched the back of Narnok’s neck and he glanced up. A drift of dust came down through the pale gloom from the massive, high arches.

It took a second or two for realisation to sink in, and by then the Red Thumbs had mobilised, leaping to their feet with drawn weapons. From the shadows around the gathering edged archers with drawn bows, arrows pointed at Narnok, Trista, Mola and the growling, throbbing dogs. One word. One tiny word…

“Don’t even think about it,” muttered Narnok, loosening the strap on his axe. Randaman saw the tiny movement.

“You bring that blade up, old horse, and it’ll be
your
turn for an arrow through the eye. Your good eye, that is. Just think on that. Even if you survived, and Veila over there is an incredible archer, trust me on this, well – you’d be
completely
blind. How would that suit you, Narnok?”

Narnok relaxed into an easy smile, whilst Trista and Mola were still tense beside him.

“That’s okay, Randaman. Well done.” He clapped his heavy hands with a pendulous rhythm. “Good bit o’ detective work, that. But if I’m honest, we’re all in this shit together. Killing us would be stupid when you think how many of that horde out there we could take down between us. Now listen. The plan to take Zanne Keep is a cracking one.” Narnok stared with his single orb into the piercing blue eyes of the handsome Red Thumb gang member before him. “I know a secret way in,” he said, smiling with scarred lips. “We can do this. Kill the sorcerer, and the general, hold the fortification until Yoon’s army gets here to put a spiked boot up the fucking arses of these invading elf rats.”

“There’s a problem,” said Randaman.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yes, Narnok of the Axe, Narnok of the Iron Wolves. A very
large
problem.”

Badograk growled, and Narnok watched him move to one side in his peripheral vision. A figure in a dark cape stepped forward from the shadows of the museum interior. He was tall and slender, with pale skin and a light scar under one eye. He seemed
vaguely
familiar.

“Hello, Narnok,” he said, moving into the light.

Weapons bristled. There were a few coughs.

“Do I know you?” snapped Narnok.

Distantly, there were several creaks, and cracking noises. Muffled. Like breaking tinder.

“I’m not sure,” said the man, moving yet closer, then circling Narnok with an arrogance and confidence he should not have possessed. “But you knew my cousin.”

Narnok went cold; his muscles tensed, ready for the impending battle.

“My name,” said the tall, gaunt figure, finally standing still and turning to face Narnok, face to face, his eyes searching Narnok’s single orb, “is Faltor Gan.” He allowed the words to sink in. “I am one of the three ruling Lords of the Red Thumb Gangs.”

“Lords, is it, now?” snapped Narnok, staring back, hard.

“I believe you knew my cousin, Narnok of the Axe. He was called Galtos Gan,” said Faltor, quietly.

“Don’t know what you’re fucking talking about.”

“No, no, I think you do. Really. Truthfully. You knew him. He paid a visit to your fine whorehouse, up past the Rokroth Marshes in that shit-hole some people call Kantarok. You murdered him, tipped him into the river. Surely you recall that simple, single event?”

“The only thing simple,” growled Narnok, eye shining, hand tight on axe-haft, “was your cousin’s fucking brain. He threatened my girls with a knife. Got violent, like. Had to be taught a lesson.”

“But…
murder,
Narnok? Come on. Surely he didn’t deserve to
die
?”

“Aye, well, things got out of hand. I didn’t mean it to go that far. But when it did, it did. So say your fucking piece, and get it out.”

Faltor Gan took a step closer, inside Narnok’s axe range. Brave. He was confident, pale face unreadable, eyes watching Narnok closely. When the attack came it was swift and massively unexpected; Faltor slid a little curved dagger from the sleeve of his leather coat, and despite his leanness he moved with lightning speed, dagger slamming up under Narnok’s chin where it would have hooked him like a fish and carved out his throat. But Narnok had been ready, and despite Faltor’s speed, was not exactly a fat waddling bartender himself. He swayed, a subtle movement and the little curved blade nicked Narnok’s chin. He dropped his axe, stepping in yet closer, arms encircling Faltor in a bear-hug, great flat forehead slamming Faltor’s nose. There was a crack and a spray of blood, but no scream. Faltor was harder than that. Much harder.

“No,” whispered Trista, and suddenly Narnok glanced up.

The archers had closed in; shafts were aimed at his face.

“Let him go, axeman,” hissed Veila, eyes narrowed. And Narnok knew; he
knew.
The shaft could skewer him before he took down the Red Thumb
Lord.
Before he ended the feud before it really began.

Narnok opened his mouth to speak, but a deafening roar suddenly blasted through the museum, rocking them all, and the whole ceiling seemed to collapse inwards from the shadowy dark heights above. The museum shook, as if in the throes of an earthquake, and from the darkness on unreeling ropes like thin spooled tree roots, dropping fast from high above amidst the tumbling debris, the plaster and the dust, came the elf rats… a hundred, at least, dropping with blades between crooked teeth and eyes alight with a quest for blood and vengeance and death.

Fingers of light crept over the horizon in radiating waves, weary grey beacons dragging in the unwilling dawn. Horses stamped the icy cobbles, four mounts taken from Beth’s stable. Each gelding was seventeen hands and a fine specimen, with good teeth and recent shoes. Well trained, Kiki thought, they were creatures more bred for war than the simple workings of a farm, but she said nothing, kept her words to herself. Zastarte had gathered several packs with supplies, which they tied to the saddle of the fourth animal, also to be used as a spare mount in case of an accident, or if one beast went lame.

Sameska stood in the courtyard, head bowed, staring down at the ice. And then he looked up, his spindly limbs lifting, his fingers spreading in what Kiki realised was a wave of farewell.

Kiki looked back at Dek and Zastarte. Dek – large, broad, stoic – grinned a bare-toothed grin. Zastarte gave a single nod, and Kiki realised how much he was tearing himself apart inside.
Damn. He really does love Trista. But does the ice bitch even realise?

“Yah!” She dug heels to flank, and spurred the gelding forward across the cobbles. Iron hooves clattered, and Dek and Zastarte followed, and they were away, out into the snow, into the wilds and the biting headwind, filled with needles.

Kiki rode ahead, scouting with keen eyes. She felt good. More alive than alive. And yet she could taste the bitter taste of the honey-leaf, and she knew; knew it was a fucking con trick. The Leaf gave, and the Leaf took away. Just like
everything in life.
And as you advanced, it took away more than it gave, in a progressive ballet of abuse and self-deception. And she knew this. Her intelligence spoke the words to her in a nagging cycle. And she listened. By all the gods, she listened.

Cold wind hissed, stirring the snow in circles.

The road was narrow, heading north, and at the top of a large hill by an upthrust of jagged rocks, Kiki suddenly reined in her mount, which struggled for a moment, head fighting the reins, until she got the creature under control. She turned, and looked back, and could see the distant city of Zanne. From here, it looked like a high-walled cube. Matt black. Locked down. Silent. Motionless.

“It looks wrong,” said Dek, reining in his own mount. “Too quiet. Too deserted.”

“I hope Trista is all right,” said Zastarte.

Dek reached over, and punched him in the chest, a not inconsiderable blow. “What’s the matter, you become a lovesick fool now, or what?”

“I have my moments,” said Zastarte, primly.

“Last I heard, you were burning bitches in your cellar dungeon.”

Silence rolled over them, and Zastarte looked away. “Maybe I am a different person now,” he said, voice barely more than a whisper.

“Yeah? Well, what changed you, man?”

Zastarte stared at him. “Maybe that noose around my neck had something to do with it. One starts to realise one’s own mortality when the King of Vagandrak desires you dead.”

Kiki slapped Dek across the back of the head, and he scowled and turned to her.
What?
said that stare.
What the fuck did I do wrong now?

“She’s a warrior princess,” smiled Kiki. “Her and Narnok; well, they’ll kill any enemy bastard that gets in their path. You know they will. They’re both survivors. We survived Desekra – twice. We survived Orlana, the bitch. And this is just another blip on the vellum scrolls of history. We
will
fucking kill and conquer. We will kill and conquer.”

Zastarte bowed his head. “Yes, Captain.”

They rode north, through ice and snow. The wind cut at them like knives. It was a bitter wind, full of mournful songs and sorrow and needle blades. Kiki welcomed it, for it kept her awake, and aware, and alive.

The day was a blur of snow and ice, and they camped in a hollow of rocks where a few sparse trees offered some shelter. Dek built a fire, but it was a pitiless, weak-willed effort; more to inspire morale than to provide any real heat in this plunging, desperate temperature. Its flames seemed completely devoid of warmth, or joy, and all three Iron Wolves huddled beneath furs and blankets, scanning the night sky for signs of more snow and each wondering, in different ways, what the future held for them. Snow seemed to have crept into the most improbable of places. Down boots and into socks, beneath shirts and up sleeves. It was a bastard snow. Intent on bleaching life and body heat.

“So, you love her?” said Kiki, after Dek had laid out his bed and snored into the fire.

“I… don’t know.” Zastarte gave her a quick glance, a tight smile, then looked away. “For a long time I hated her. I think. She was so… arrogant. She could have any man she wanted, back in the
good old days.
But she never wanted me. Eventually, I came to realise that she was killing, actually fucking
killing
any man who crossed her; any man who fucked her. Until she found her true love. The man who married her. Then betrayed her. And caused a hundred wedded brides to lose their lives.”

Kiki gave a short laugh.

Zastarte nodded.

“Yeah. I know. Fucked up, isn’t it?”

“I think we all are, in our own way,” said Kiki.

“But recently, recently… well. I don’t know.”

“You want to love her, but you fear she will kill you?”

Zastarte snorted a laugh. “You think I fear death, Captain? After all I’ve been through? After all the shit I’ve endured? No. Death is a welcome release. A welcome release when it comes. Just like a long sleep. But… I think my biggest fear is that I may have missed out on something major in my life. I thought I was in love, many, many times. You’d slide fingers into quim, feel that slick warm honey that meant they wanted you, welcomed you, and that would be the end of the game. You’d won. The bet was done. You had that quim ready and fucking begging, because, after all,” he gave a weak grin, “we’re all animals, right? And it’s the nature of the beast to fuck and reproduce.”