The White Towers (47 page)

Mola brought his sword around.

“Horse shit,” he muttered.

It was an elf rat. And a tall one at that.

“Dogs,” he said, and Duchess looked at him. He pointed. “Kill.”

Duchess, Duke, Sarge and Thrasher leapt forward, muscles powering them into attack in a seething mass of fur and snarling jaws, slamming them towards the elf rat. Mola observed. It was tall, seven feet at least, and had narrow bony limbs in skin that reminded Mola of bark. It carried no weapons in hands with long fingers like claws. With a shudder, he realised it was watching him.

It made no move as the dogs charged, and Mola started forward, following them up with his sword in case of other surprises. He was in no doubt his dogs would tear this creature apart, but there might be others. Hundreds of others…

Duchess was quickest, and as the bitch leapt, snarling, jaws glinting, the elf rat’s hand suddenly lifted, fingers together, palm to the ground. Duchess hit the frozen grass limp and unconscious, and in the blink of an eye, the other dogs followed. They landed, Thrasher rolling, and lay unmoving.

“NO!” screamed Mola, and charged forward, his sword in one fist.

“They are sleeping,” said the elf rat, his voice a gentle hiss like the wind caressing oak leaves in a dreamy forest on a summer afternoon. Mola felt
something
hit him, like a wave of pressure that forced a need to sleep into his system. He faltered, his aggression and hate leaking away, and his sword lowered, his charge slowing.

He stopped, and knelt by Duchess. She was breathing deeply.

Mola’s head came up. “Who are you?” he slurred, feeling drugged, sleepy.

“I am Sameska,” said the elf rat, dark eyes gleaming. “Your Iron Wolf friends, Kiki and Dek and Zastarte, are on a mission into elf rat lands to find the Elf Heart and destroy it, freeing my people;
purifying
my people from an ancient curse. And yet, they walk into a terrible trap – for here, Bazaroth aea Quazaquiel holds a spell over the Elf Heart; ancient Equiem magick. When they get close, they will be torn apart by primal elemental forces. If the Tree Stalkers don’t kill them first.”

“My friends, they have gone in there,” Mola gestured to the Keep, “seeking this sorcerer, Bazaroth. They will kill him.”

“They have already failed,” said Sameska, stepping forward from under the iron archway. He knelt by Duchess, and stroked her fur. “They are imprisoned in Zanne Dungeons, even as we speak.”

“Then I will go to their rescue,” said Mola, despite feeling only a need for his bed.

“I will help you,” said Sameska, his voice hypnotic. He fixed his dark eyes on Mola. He grinned, and his teeth were like splinters of thorn. “We will find Bazaroth together, both you and your dogs, and I will help you kill him.” Sameska stroked Duchess. “Or else the Iron Wolves will surely die.”

 

Narnok groaned. Fuck me, that was one hefty session on the whiskey! I hope I didn’t do anything I shouldn’t. I hope my bastard axe didn’t get me into any more trouble. Actually. I fucking wish I hadn’t even been born.

Narnok’s head pounded. His mouth tasted like a sewer. His knuckles throbbed, and he groaned again inside; that was
never
a good sign. What local strutting farmer had he taken apart this time?

Then he opened his eyes, and the world spun around and into focus and reality came crashing in, along with his memories, and his fear. He was in a black stone dungeon. The walls were damp and festering with thick mounds of mould. His arms were chained above his head, and he sagged against his chains, his wrists burning and cramped. He spat on the floor before him, and a cool breeze drifted across his hot, fevered features. He looked to his left, where Trista was watching him from her own chains, a sardonic smile caressing her face.

“I think we fucked up,” she said.

“What were those tentacle things coming out of Randaman’s face?” blurted Narnok, and shuddered. Then he manoeuvred his chained hands and started poking at his own mouth. “They’ve not done it to me, have they, Trist? You can’t see anything sprouted out of my face, can you?”

“Only your unkempt nostril hair,” said Trista, wearily.

They hung there for a while, in silence, contemplating their fate.

“We’ve been in worse shit than this,” said Narnok, eventually.

“Yes. Possibly.”

“We’ll sort something out.”

“Again, possibly.”

Narnok moaned and wriggled. “Your stitches are holding up well,” he said, maybe a little too brightly.

Trista gave him a stern look. “Well, it’s always good to know one’s handiwork is appreciated; especially when one is about to die.”

“Don’t be like that, Trista.”

“What? Pragmatic?”

Narnok suddenly realised others were chained up with them; hard to see in the gloom, further down the stone wall filled with chains and manacles at a variety of handy heights. There was Veila, unconscious, head hung low, arms above and behind her in an inverted “V”. And squinting, Narnok could just make out Dag Da. Beyond that he could see Cunt and Meatboy, and other figures whom he assumed to be the prison boys.

“I wonder how many of us survived?” he muttered.

“That’s academic,” said Trista.

“How do you reckon that?”

“Because we’ll all soon be dead.”

There came a distant scraping of iron. The sound of heavy tumblers in a lock. Boots on stone.

Three figures could be seen, shadows at first bearing lanterns before them which illuminated faces in pale circles of glowing orange; demons drifting through the dark.

Narnok grunted when he saw Randaman and Faltor Gan. They stopped, one lantern swinging gently, and surveyed Narnok with narrow smiles.

“What do you cunts want?” he growled.

“Brave words from a man who’s chained up,” said Randaman.

Narnok shrugged. “I’m impressed you can speak, Red Thumb dregshit, last time I saw you,
you
had all this tentacle shit spewing from your mouth like you was something dredged out of the sea, dead – and better off there, if I don’t say so myself.”

Randaman’s face shifted into a scowl. “
You don’t know of what you speak!”
he snarled.

Narnok stared back, his single eye bright and focused, his scarred face hard and brutal. “I know I’d rather be dead that have octopus legs for a face. And as for him,” he gestured to Faltor Gan, with a nudge of his head, “what’s the matter, sea creature maggots got your tongue?”

“We are operating at a higher level than you could ever imagine,” said Faltor Gan, and gave a brittle smile. He lifted the lantern a little higher, as if better to regard Narnok. “The elf rats are now All Powerful across Vagandrak, Narnok of the Axe. You are dumber than a dead donkey if you can’t see the power shift in this land; we
volunteered
ourselves to the Great Sorcerer, Bazaroth – and as a reward, he gave us the
gift
that you witnessed in the Hall of Zanne Keep. We are truly
honoured
to be taken in by the elf rats; to be trusted, to be treated as equals; to be given the power of the
quests.
”

“You’ve got fucking tentacles in your mouth, boy!” roared Narnok, with booming laughter. “That’s not evolution, it’s a child’s evil fucking nightmare!”

Randaman drew a short, curved blade, and moved close, his eyes narrowing. “You are about to witness the greatest power shift Vagandrak has ever seen, you ugly old fuck; and
we
will be there at the forefront, serving the king, working with the armies, bringing the elf rats to total domination over human scum like Yoon, whose ancestors betrayed them all those centuries ago! But then, you’ll be able to see
fuck all
if I cut out your remaining eye, eh lad?”

He was close now,
closer,
and Narnok had reined back on his chains when they first entered the dungeon with their lanterns. Now, he surged forward and delivered a massive smashing headbutt that crushed Randaman’s nose into a broken flat pancake and sent him spinning around, arms outstretched, screeching, his dagger clattering to the stone floor as he finally sat down and pressed his hands to his nose. They met blood and sharp shards of bone and cartilage and he screamed at the touch, then looked up, eyes bright with hate, and he searched the ground for his dagger and crawled to his feet.

“I’m going to gut you now,” he said in a terribly calm voice.

“Enough!” snapped Faltor Gan, stepping in front of Randaman and gesturing for him to get rid of the knife. “Stop being a horse dick. You know why we’re here. You know what we have to do.”

Narnok, splattered with Randaman’s blood, grinned. “What you going to do, use those facial tentacles to arse-fuck us to death?”

“On the contrary.” Faltor Gan smiled, and gestured down the line. Now, by the light of the lantern Narnok could see the others awakening, groggy, faces filled with confusion and fear. Veila was muttering, her eyes wild. Dag Da was silent and stony-faced. He could see Bones, Meatboy, Darkdog and Cunt, who was scowling enough for all of them, his great thunderous brows touching in the middle.

“What are you going to do?” whispered Trista.

“We are going to make you one of us,” said Faltor Gan, and a fist-thick core of tentacles erupted from his mouth like organic vomit, like a tube of snakes. And behind him, grinning, Randaman did the same.

Narnok held his courage in place, strong and hard and true; managed to hold on well; right up to the point where the thrashing, oiled tentacles touched his face, like a caress from a warped snake lover, and then ran down his scarred jawline, touched delicately to his lips, forced them apart like a powerful, forked lover’s tongue. And he could taste them, taste their wriggling, bitter tang, like rotting bark, like ancient mushrooms, like rotting meat long dead in the forest.

It was only as they pushed inside his mouth, that Narnok began to scream.

 

The mugginess of sleep was leaving Mola, and Sameska led him to the massive gate of Zanne Keep. Duchess and the other dogs were awake now. They’d whined a little, then crossed to Sameska and – to Mola’s utter, total amazement – licked his bony fingers as if he were their master.

“Charming,” he muttered, just a little put out.

They stood there, the tall spindly elf rat, the short, narrow-faced ex-Iron Wolf, and four dogs of renowned fighting heritage. The snow was falling more heavily, now, and Sameska turned his face to the heavens, eyes closed. He seemed to be tasting the air. Suddenly, quests emerged from his right hand and sank into the soil, moving deep, pushing aside soil and leaves and snow. Sameska sank to one knee and lowered his head. He seemed to stay like that for a long time.

Mola hopped from one foot to the other, glancing occasionally at his dogs. They seemed…
odd.
They were behaving in a very strange fashion. They kept glancing towards him as if they only half knew him; and that made him very nervous.

“Duchess. Here, girl. Good girl.”

She stared at him hard, then reluctantly, padded to his side.

This is turning into a long and evil fucking night, he thought sourly.

Finally, Sameska roused and stood. The quests retracted into his hands like slippery sliding worms into a vat of jelly. Mola stared, and felt his stomach turn over with a mighty churning, as a shudder wracked through his body.

“We don’t have much time,” said the elf rat, voice husky.

“You know where Kiki and Dek are?”

“Yes. They are in Zalazar. We must find Bazaroth, or they will face certain destruction.”

Mola stared hard at Sameska. “You do realise I don’t exactly have much love for these people,” he said, after a few moments. “You do realise I only love my dogs. Right?”

“Of course,” said Sameska. “However. If you do not wish you – and your dogs – and your entire
people
to be enslaved by the twisted, poisoned elf rats under Daranganoth and his pet sorcerer, Bazaroth, then we must act. Do you have no loyalty for your country?”

Mola considered this. “Not much, I reckon,” he said. “But I hear what you’re saying. Let’s do it. Er. What exactly are we going to do? This door is looking pretty fucking thick and impenetrable to me, my new spindly, bark-faced elf rat friend.”

Sameska gave him a smile, and extended his hand. Quests surged out and entered the oak portal – all twenty feet of it. They extended through the wood, making cracking sounds, spreading out like a pale spider’s web just beneath the surface, racing through the grain and then, suddenly, there came an almighty titanic
crack
like thunder, like mountains breaking up, like the end of the world. The giant gates guarding Zanne Portal broke into thousands of pieces, jagged chunks of timber like so many axe-hacked logs. Wood dust billowed out, and for a moment Mola felt as if he stood in the midst of a sawmill during a violent storm. And then it blasted past him, filling his eyes with grit and making him sneeze with its warm, invasive passage.

“Follow me,” said Sameska, and strode forward.

Still clutching his sword, Mola followed and, in silence, his dogs came after him.

 

It was like a dream, a blurring of reality, a honey-leaf drugsmoke vision. Mola followed the elf rat, loping through endless corridors of opulence, through carpeted halls, through great vast libraries lined floor to ceiling with ancient tomes and wood panelling; they moved through chapels of religious calm, through great rooms with intricate tapestries of ancient battles and rich oil paintings of long forgotten monarchs. And all the while, Mola’s dogs panted after him, and he panted after Sameska, and he wondered what the fuck he was doing and maybe,
just maybe,
he should turn around and do the right thing – run away from this place, head alone for the mountains and seek out a simple life of solitude in a crude log cabin.