The White Towers (31 page)

“So what will you do here?” said Kiki.

“I will work at bringing down Daranganoth from the inside. I will do my utmost to slay his primary weapon.”

“Primary weapon?” Zastarte raised his eyebrows.

“The elf rat sorcerer, Bazaroth aea Quazaquiel. He is dangerous beyond belief.”

“How will you do that?” said Kiki, voice low and level.

“I will find Narnok and Trista,” said Sameska, with a smile of sharp, slightly twisted thorns. “And I will help rally the rebels inside the city – ready for your triumphant return with the Elf Heart. Either that, or its destruction.”

 

Sleep came easily to Dek. He snored the snore of a pig, and Kiki was annoyed at first, and then grinned to herself. Better the snore of a pig, than the utter total silence of loneliness, she tried to convince herself. It was a hard fight to win.

She lay on her back, the blankets warm around her, cosy, pondering the words of Sameska. A long journey. Hunted. Battles. War. But then, wasn’t that a description of her entire fucking life? Not for her the chance to settle down, find the right man, marry, have children. Raise those children with love and education and understanding.

But why?
Why not?

It was in her hand before she even realised, and slowly she placed the stolen
honey-leaf
coin from the Zanne processing plant under her tongue. The reaction was almost automatic, a reflex instinctive rather than learned. The hard coin softened, and slowly crumbled, and gradually melted. It tasted bitter. And yet the bitterness was like an old, welcome friend. A fine whiskey. A perfect steak. The passionate kiss from a perfect partner on New Year.

The honey-leaf crumbled under Kiki’s tongue, and Kiki crumbled into the honey-leaf.

And it felt good.

It felt right.

And nothing, nothing, could ever be the same again.

 

So you have
no
respect for him.

So
…
why are you doing this, then?

Kiki blinked in the candlelight, and ran her hand down Dek’s flank.
Fuck yes
;
pain is what tells you you’re still alive.

The four huge dogs – Duchess, Duke, Sarge and the monster from Hell that was Thrasher – charged with scrabbling claws across polished marble leaving trails of saliva. At the last minute, Narnok turned and heaved Trista to one side, grabbed a nearby chair and leapt up onto the long feasting table, boots scarring the highly polished surface. Duchess came first, and the heavy wood clubbed her down. She rolled, yelping to one side, and came up fast. Then the other dogs were there and Narnok laid into them, the chair smashing into pieces in his fists. Thuds echoed out as Narnok beat all four dogs from the air like a batsman playing Heart Ball, and they fell, yelping, rolling, and Narnok’s eyes found Mola and the two men exchanged a moment and Mola knew,
knew
Narnok was playing the kind man, the kind soul, and suddenly he threw down the sticks and hefted his axe and it was no longer a game. Mola had had his chance, and Narnok had given him an opportunity, but now, if he didn’t call them off, real blood would be spilt…

Narnok readied himself with his axe. In truth, he loved dogs, and it hurt him to beat even these huge shaggy brutes with a club. But this was no game and they’d drag him down and tear him apart given half the chance. Narnok was under no delusions as to their ferocity. It was just… he remembered his puppy. And he fucking loved puppies.

“
Dogs
!” roared Mola. “
Down
!”

Three turned to stare at him, almost in disbelief. Only Duchess obeyed immediately for she loved him without question. She was a good bitch.

“
Down
you fucking disobedient wretches!” stormed Mola, stamping forward, and all four dogs lay at his feet, gazing up at him, and competing for his love.

Slowly, Mola lifted his gaze to Narnok, who stepped down onto a chair, then to the floor, axe easy by his side but there just in case he needed it; for man
or
beast.

“You’re a lucky man,” growled Narnok.

“How’s that?”

“I don’t like killing dogs. So I let them live. Men, on the other hand,” he smiled a grim smile, “that’s a different story.”

“Point taken, Narn. Point taken.”

There came an awkward silence, and Trista stepped forward looking both men up and down. She tutted, and stroked her chin.

“You still owe me that money, though,” said Mola.

“I agree. This changes nothing. You ripped me off, you bastard.”

“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” hissed Trista, her own eyes flashing dangerous and she glanced between them. “This is, and I say it with absolute sincerity,
fucking insane.
There’s a horde of deviant elf rats out there just dying to rip you apart. If you feel the need for some fucking aggravation, just step outside the front door of this museum.”

Mola shrugged.

Narnok turned and looked away.

The dogs growled on the floor.

“Shake hands,” said Trista.

“Eh?” snarled Narnok.

“Over my dead body,” growled Mola.

“I can fucking arrange that,” snapped Narnok.

“Stop, stop, stop,” said Trista in exasperation. “What is it with you two? It wasn’t like this back in the day, was it? I would have remembered. Then stabbed you both through the heart when you were asleep.” She smiled, grimly, and they both realised it wasn’t just a figure of speech; she actually, really, actually meant it.

“Bardok? What’s going on there?” The voice was lazy, casual, sensuous, authoritative. It drifted like woodsmoke from the rear of the museum hall, where deep shadows lay, where tall sculptures cast esoteric images on the marble and the matt white walls.

“
Bardok
?” hissed Narnok. “What game is being played?”

Mola’s eyes went wide. “Play the game, horse dick, or we’ll all be dead.”

“Eh?”

“Explain,” whispered Trista.

“These are the Red Thumbs,” said Mola, waggling his eyebrows in what would have been an amusing gesture if it hadn’t been for the raw terror the simple name the “Red Thumbs” was capable of conjuring. “
Play along
, Narnok. They fucking hate the Iron Wolves. I mean,
fucking hate them.
”

“Not as much as they hate me,” muttered Narnok. “I’ve, er, had some dealings with them in the past.”

“What kind of dealings?”

“I killed some of them.”

“
Which
some of them?” Mola’s eyes were even wider, now.

“Er. Some important some of them.”

“Fuck.”

“Time to leave?”

“Just play it cool.”

“I’m a hard man to hide.”

“It’s too late to run.”

A shadow detached from the other shadows at the back of the museum hall. It drifted forward, casually, with an air of natural grace one might associate with decadent royalty, or maybe a natural, drunken warrior.

He was tall, and dashingly handsome. He wore his dark hair long to the nape of his neck, his face was finely chiselled – a square jaw, handsome humour lines, piercing blue eyes – broad shoulders, narrow hips, a natural swagger that spoke of confidence and conquest and arrogance. He carried narrow curved swords on each hip, and knives at boot, thigh, hip and chest, which spoke of profession in real combat. These weren’t ornaments. This almost-dandy was a killer.

“Randaman,” said Mola, turning and nodding. “Found these here people wandering. Thought I’d check they weren’t… you know. The diseased. The twisted. The…
elves
.”

“Of course.” Randaman strode forward, and Narnok noted he kept a certain distance from the axe and swords on display. He was experienced. His every movement screamed it. Narnok immediately despised him. Randaman reminded Narnok of all those ale-house male whores, those smooth charmers who took the virginity of innocent young farm girls and left them to rot with a baby to feed; he reminded Narnok of the slime who ran the gambling pits, making money from the needy and the desperate in society; but most of all, Narnok despised him because he simply
looked like a cunt.
Thus, he kept his mouth shut and let Trista do the talking. After all, she had blonde curls and a figure to die for. What competition an old soldier with scars for a face?

Randaman took careful, wary stock of Narnok. This man was no fool. He saw the experience laid out in the chips and metal-scars on the axe blades. Then his eyes, only a cursory scan to begin with, fell fully upon the beauty that was Trista. Yes, she hadn’t washed in a while, and had been involved in various battles leaving bloody stains on clothing and face and hair, and she was filled with exhaustion and pain and fear, which laid itself out across her grey face like a pastel painting. But there was no disguising a goddess. And Trista was the most beautiful of them all; as many a man had found, to his peril. And indeed, his terminal curiosity.

“Lady?” said Randaman.

“That sounded like a question,” purred Trista, turning to keep up with his traversal. The turn made her head and body turn against itself, and the image was intoxicating. “You think, maybe, I am not a lady?”

“Oh no; no, no, I am certain to the nth degree that you are fully a woman, and indeed, one of the most incredible women I have ever witnessed.”

“I haven’t heard that one before,” smiled Trista, although it was an ice-cold smile and her eyes were diamonds trapped in ice for a million years.

“Come now.” Randaman stopped his dandy’s waltz. Narnok nearly puked with the theatricality of it all. “No need to be modest. Not here. Not in this company.” He smiled a heart-winning smile which Trista returned. She’d seen it all before. On a million fake advertisements for love.

“I’m not being modest,” she said. “We’re just trying to stay alive. Out there… out there…”

Narnok noted how she turned her voice a little. Now, she was a desperate princess in need of rescue. Narnok grinned through his remaining teeth. Fuck, he thought. How did you get so fucking cynical? But then, people – and cunts – kept proving him right. Once, the world used to be a pleasant place filled with people willing to help one another. Now, it was a charnel pit filled with death and scum and shit.

Yeah? Why did you fight at Desekra Fortress then?

For the money and the fame, bitch. Always for the money and the glory.

“You have come a long way?” asked Randaman. Trista looked at Mola, who kept his face straight and neutral. No help there. Mola was playing the solo game. Mola was simply looking after his own base survival.

“We’ve been holidaying with a rich uncle at the foot of the Mountains of Skarandos,” lied Trista smoothly. She’d had a lifetime of practice. “We were there a month. Then we travelled north to Zanne, and… the whole city was locked down. Screams came from within. It was terrifying!” She played the fraught virgin with expertise, despite hints to the contrary. No woman of Trista’s age or beauty was a virgin. Well. Not often. Still, Randaman was sucked in and you could see it in his eyes, in his face, in his stance. He was intoxicated by Trista. Body, heart and soul. He wanted in. Inside. In that warm place. They all did, till they felt the reverse fuck; the slide of cold iron into their hearts and throats. A double penetration. Who fucks who?

“These are dangerous times,” nodded Randaman. “You… you should come with us. For protection. For safety.”

Narnok snorted a laugh. Randaman slid his gaze to the huge axeman; a sideways shift. “Something amusing you, pretty boy?” he snapped.

Narnok cooled himself, and turned full on to Randaman. Just to show him exactly what he was fucking with. “I recognise,” said Narnok, slowly, as if addressing a simpleton, “that my face resembles a steak dinner after the dogs have chewed it. However, the one thing no cunt can ever take from me is my pride. The last man who called me
pretty boy
in puerile sarcasm,” Narnok considered this for a few moments, hand across his chin and lips as if solving some great conundrum, “well, lad,” he growled, “I cut him in half with my axe. And I fucking mean
in half
. From the top of his skull, to his dangling slack ball sack. A dissection of skin and meat and fat and bone, a neat cut of organs and bowel and bloody shit. As I sat around the fire that night, with the lads, picking bits of sliced bollock from the chips in my axe-blades, I asked myself a question –
is there a time when you’ll grow up, and stop taking needless offence from the pointless hot-air of yapping idiots?
And you know what my answer to myself was? It was a fucking
no,
lad. Because if you ain’t got no self-respect, then what have you got in this shit, pointless life?”