Read The White Towers Online

Authors: Andy Remic

Tags: #Vagandrak broken, #The Iron Wolves, #Elf Rats, #epic, #heroic, #anti-heroic, #grimdark, #fantasy

The White Towers (2 page)

BOOK: The White Towers
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“No,” rumbled Dunda, his eyes fixed on the Iron Wolves. “Let them go. For now. Their blood rage is high. Last thing we want is a dead king’s blood and body on
our
hands.”
The Iron Wolves made their way to the tunnel beneath the second Desekra Wall, where Narnok pulled across a heavy iron gate and barred it, cutting off the majority of the remaining soldiers. From there, they moved to the nearest prison block, ducking inside, Kiki coming last with King Yoon as her living, breathing, royal-endorsed shield.
“Where now?” panted Dek, as gloom closed in. Outside, ice rattled on the cobbles and battlements, filling the world with a hushed white noise.
“Back underground,” said Kiki, crouching to touch the soil. Her eyes were gleaming. “We head down. Into the tunnels. And get as far away from this place as is humanly possible.”
“Human?” said Dek, raising an eyebrow.
Kiki chuckled, but there was no humour there. “You know what I mean.”
They moved to the back of the empty prison block, filled with an old lingering stench of urine and vomit, towards a narrow door with a winding set of stone steps that led down to the dungeons proper; far beneath the main Keep. Yoon fought for a moment at the narrow doorway, his eyes filled with dread, fingers scratching at the portal edges.
“No. No!”
“I can strangle you unconscious and carry you down, if you like?” said Narnok amiably, looming close, his terribly scarred face and destroyed eye like the mask of some cut-up hell demon.
Yoon stared at him. “I’ll walk,” he said, mouth dry. “But my men – my army! – know this. They will hunt you down! They will slaughter you, like young squealing pigs in a tin shed filled with their own blood and shit!”
Narnok slapped the king across the back of the head, nearly pitching the man down the narrow spiral steps. “If you say so, lad. If you say so,” muttered the huge axeman.
The Iron Wolves descended… down, into the darkness.
Into a subterranean world of shadows.
FROM THE FIRE
For a long time, he truly believed he was condemned to Hell. Fire roared like a furnace. Flames burned high, scorching, searing, and all he could hear was a high-pitched female voice screaming; a tortured banshee; an eldritch sound. All he could see were glowing coals, as if they’d filled up the world before his eyes ­– had
become
his eyes. And then he slowly realised that the female screaming was his own, and the knowledge filled him with a chilled terror which dropped down through his bones to his very core. Feebly, he started to crawl, over fire and glowing stone, and sensed a massive movement around him. It was the huge, burning building shifting, groaning, growling, cracking, as if this structure and the fire were titanic monsters in some incredible, slow-paced battle. But he knew the fire would triumph. It always did.
Eventually the screaming stopped.
His
screaming stopped. Everything was dry, and hot, and blurred with hot mercury tears. Then the world fell away and tumbled down and darkness became his mistress.
 
He awoke to the sound of running water. It was beautiful. Perhaps the most beautiful thing he’d ever heard. Music. Pure music. A symphony of Nature. And then the pain hit him, like a sledgehammer in the back of the head, and he gasped as needles flooded every vein, every organ, every atom of his body and he opened his mouth to scream, and his skin made crackling noises, and only a croak vomited out. The pain pounded him in great pulsing waves and with a sigh, he lowered his face to the frozen soil and registered a little puddle of ice, before he passed into darkness again.
 
Water. The water was cool. He pushed his hands under his body, feebly lifting himself up and then forward to slump onto his chest. White. Everywhere was white. He could smell smoke. He could smell burned pork. He could taste ash. He lifted himself again, and jerked himself forward. There were bushes. They briefly registered as a flash of tangled green. He lifted himself, slumped forward. Lifted himself. Slumped forward. Every movement screamed through his muscles. Every breath tore through his lungs like hot knives. He panted, and tried to cry, but there were no tears. His tongue, a dry stalk, licked lips like ruptured bark.
Danger. There was great danger! Men with swords.
Fire.
Forward. He pushed himself forward. It took a million years.
Stars were born. Flared. And died.
And still he pushed towards the flowing, musical stream, inching closer, and closer, and closer, and finally he reached a slope, and rolled down with a gasp through powdered snow to lie at the edge. The edges of the water were frozen, glittering like fine crystal. He could see his own breath smoking, now, and he brought his hand up to his gaze and almost wretched at the blackened, hooked claw, great cracks in the hard-cooked flesh weeping trickles of blood and pus…
It cannot be.
That cannot be my hand.
How could this awful thing happen to me?
He removed the claw from before his eyes and struggled forward, every inch of flesh pulsing him with waves of pain as if in some sick competition to make him puke. He slid over ice, then splashed into the flowing water and it was like instant orgasm. He gasped, the freezing water shocking him, and felt himself carried away, drifting away from the life-threatening danger. The men. With swords.
The men. And a name.
Dek.
He choked and spluttered a few times, flapping like a stranded fish in an ironic reversal, and gasped as he went down a low waterfall head-first, splashing into the pool, bobbing like an embalmed cadaver, limbs useless and trailing as the current picked him up once more and spun him around, drifting him downstream. It seemed to go on for some time, although he sensed he was drifting in and out of consciousness.
What happened?
questioned his confused mind, over and over again.
How did I get here?
But the answers would not come, and all he could remember were men, and swords, and talk of money, then burning wood, the roar of a terrible angry leviathan, bright flames all around and screaming, screaming as his clothes burned, his beard and hair caught fire, and he ran, then crawled on his knees, then squirmed like a snake on its belly to be free of the searing heat…
There came a gentle crunch as he came to rest on a crescent of pebbles. The stream bent here, and he had come to rest in a side-pool. He moved his arms slowly and tried to push himself up, but slumped back into the water, face first, spitting bubbles.
Maybe he was drowning? He did not care. At least the water was ice cold. Chilling him to the bone.
Anything but fire. Anything but the heat.
He shuddered.
Dek. Dek, the bastard. It had been a trap. Lantern oil. Mother’s house. Trapped, with other members of the Red Thumb Gangs…
He fell swiftly down. Into darkness.
He knew he would die.
 
There came… a shaking.
“Agathe! Agathe! Come quickly!” Hands on him, instant agony, and a muttering, a woman’s voice but gravelled and croaking. “Oh, by the Sweet Mother, oh my word, oh my God! What have we here? What’s happened to you, poor boy? Oh my word! AGATHE!”
“What is it, what is it?” The grumbling of an old crone.
“Come quickly, there’s a poor young man here!”
“Oh my, what happened?”
“I don’t know, here, help me lift him. Oh my poor back, I can’t do this, go and get the cart and be swift about it!”
Words whispered into his ear. “You hold on, you poor, poor man. Don’t you dare let go. We’ll look after you now. I’m Grace, that was my sister Agathe, she’ll bring the pony and cart. Don’t you worry about a thing.”
 
The clop of hooves. Every jolt made him scream and the pain returned in great pulsing waves as his hands clawed, nails scratching at the wooden boards. He felt an incisor snap as his teeth ground together. He tried to weep, but nothing came, and he panted in frustration, and wished with all his heart that he were dead.
 
A smell. Sweetness. Honey. And something else. Almost like… cream. And blackberries. Slowly, gradually, finally, coolness crept over him. He was aware of no movement, no sound, no vision, just that beautiful sweet smell, and that gradual enveloping coolness. Eventually, hearing seemed to return, with various cracks and pops, and a feeling of pressure released inside his head. He worked his jaw from side to side and his whole face felt odd, solid almost, like he wore a mask that had been glued to him. He lifted his hand to explore, but heard a tut, a “Hush, what’re you doing?”, and his hand was guided away.
His eyes flickered open.
Two old women stood, gazing down at him. One was holding a large tub in frail, wrinkled hands; the other a wooden spatula.
“Ahh, he’s awake. What’re you called, boy?”
“I…” But he could not speak.
“Ahh, lost for words. But don’t worry. We’ll look after you. We’ll take care of you. Been in a fire, you have. Oh, but I’m losing my manners, my name is Grace, and this is my sister, Agathe. But then, I think I already told you that. It’s been all hands on deck since we found you. Burned, you were. Lying in the stream. Brought you back here on our cart, we did. Boy, you’re a heavy young man! You were wearing chainmail that had almost become a part of you, thanks to the fire. We had to sedate you and use a blunt knife to prize each ring from your flesh.”
“Grace! He won’t be wanting to know that, now.”
“Yes, yes, sorry. How do you feel? You must feel terrible. We’ve made an unguent from various ingredients, it will cool your skin, and draw any bad pus from the open flesh. Oh look, Agathe, he’s trying to speak again.”
“He’ll need water, Grace. Give the poor boy some water.”
Grace took a small cup and held it to his lips. He drank. It was, in all truth, the most incredible thing he had ever tasted. No wine, or ale, or sweet fruit juice could ever compare to that first conscious drink of pure, cool, soothing water.
He spluttered, and Grace removed the cup.
“Thank you,” he croaked.
“What’s your name, boy?”
“I…” and he realised he could not remember. So he licked his cracked open lips, and instead, said, “Thank you. Agathe. Grace. For rescuing. Me.”
“Do you remember what happened?”
“There was a fire.”
“You don’t say, young man!” smiled Grace.
Agathe kicked her, and Grace scowled, bending to rub her ankle.
He drank more water, but still his tongue was made of old oak, still his mouth rinsed with ash. As he licked his lips, he wondered if the taste of fire would ever go away.
“Do you remember anything else?”
He remembered men with swords, firelight glimmering on polished blades. He remembered Dek, the large pit-fighter with iron-dark eyes, and talk of the money he owed to the Red Thumb Gang. But he said nothing. If these old ladies heard talk of warriors and gangs, they might not be so keen to nurse him back to health. If indeed, he
could
be nursed back to health.
“No,” he finally managed. “Need. To sleep.”
“Of course, dear. Of course.”
Again, his face felt tight, odd, and he tried to lift his hand. Grace stopped him, gently, and returned his clawed, blackened appendage to the white cotton sheets. “No, no, young man. We have placed linen gauze over most of your face. It keeps the cream in place, keeps your skin moist. We’re going to wrap you up pretty well. We’ve dealt with burns before. We know what we’re doing.”
“How?”
“Agathe here used to be a nurse in the city hospital. In Vagan.”
“Oh. That’s… good. Sleep… now.”
Grace patted his hand. “Yes, you poor, poor man. You get some much needed rest.”
 
Salvond sat high in the tree. It was a fabulous tree, an ancient oak, gnarled and twisted and… Salvond closed his eyes for a few moments.
Nigh on four hundred years old
. A section was blackened from a previous lightning strike, maybe a hundred years previous, and once more, closing his eyes Salvond felt himself sink into the bark, through the cambium, through sapwood and finally into the heartwood. He felt the slow beat of the tree’s heart, its soul. And he relived the lightning strike, a series of feelings that linked to form a memory. And Salvond soothed the ancient oak. Sent his own pulses through heartwood, through sapwood, and he felt the oak respond to him, acknowledging him, accepting him.
Slowly, he opened his eyes. The two old women were pulling the blackened, tortured man from the pool and man-handling him, with curses and creaks, into a low wooden cart. Salvond remained perfectly still, his own skin – like bark – blending perfectly into the oak which had accepted him, made him its own. Slowly, Salvond’s outer cells shifted,
mutated,
more and more until he was perfectly invisible against the oak. Only his black eyes could be seen. And the red of his mouth when he licked bark-rough lips.
The two women pulled the cart to their cottage nearby. Salvond listened and, through the sap, through the run of water through the soil, through tiny vibrations bounced from singing birds and clicking insects, he heard their dialogue.
Finally, night fell: a gradual, settling cloak.
There came a crunch as Salvond leapt from the oak and landed in the snow, awkwardly, his twisted back, his different-length legs, one rigid and straight, one with two supple knee joints, all combining to make him crooked and disjointed. Salvond hobbled through the snow towards the cottage, slowly, his bark-like skin masking him in the darkness, his thick, wiry, grey-green hair like so much gorse and bramble.
He slowed by the window. Inside, the glow of an oil lantern illuminated the blackened man in a bed of white cotton sheets, his visible arms and face covered in cream and gauzes, the two old women chatting to him amiably.
BOOK: The White Towers
7.55Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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