The White Towers

by Andy Remic

  Bazaroth nodded, and Masketh was released. Shaela was tossed in his direction and they crumpled together like crushed flowers, hands and arms clamping one another as they fell into an embrace, and sank to their knees, sobbing at one another.

  Bazaroth made an impatient, clucking sound. “Your sentiment is touching, humans, but if you are not on your feet in three seconds and showing me what I want to know, then my original offer of tearing you limb from bloody, shredded limb still stands. One. Two…”

  Both Masketh and Shaela scrambled to their feet, still clinging to one another like drowning lovers. Their eyes were wide. Masketh’s understanding sank in slowly, and he lurched into motion, dragging a limp-limbed Shaela with him. They moved across the throne room, into a series of large, high-arched corridors with high plaster carvings of kings and queens from ancient history. Limping, staff clacking, Bazaroth snarled at many of those depictions in unfavourable remembrance. Some of them had been responsible for driving the elf rats from Vagandrak in the first place.

  Down long corridors they travelled, Shaela sobbing, Masketh attempting to calm her, until they came to a mammoth, redwood panelled library, rising up with ornate black iron spiral staircases to three balconies above, revealing towering stacks of books, not just in their thousands, but tens of thousands. The smell of leather and polish was strong, until Bazaroth brought his own elf rat stench; a mixture of woodland decomposition and… a metallic something, underlying, like a half-buried cat corpse half eaten by maggots.

  “There.” Masketh pointed.

  Bazaroth limped forward, and whacked his staff against a dark panel in a wall of similar panels. There came a hollow thud. Quests wormed from his opened hand, surging from his palm. They wrapped around the panel and wrenched it free with a tearing of wood and iron brackets. There was a twang, as of heavy released springs.

  Bazaroth smiled, and stepped disjointedly into the darkness of the tunnel beyond.

  General Namash, a huge, hulking elf rat warrior with skin like dark oak and fists like tree stumps, pushed forward through the acolytes who had followed the sorcerer. “Bazaroth!” he barked, and the wizened old sorcerer turned.

  “Yes, General?”

  “What about those?” he pointed to the two shivering humans who had betrayed their queen.

  “Feed them to the Tree Stalkers,” Bazaroth whispered, eyes gleaming.

  WHITE WORLD

  The mountains of Skarandos were huge, a vast range of towering grey and black peaks, some nearly ten thousand feet in height and perpetually capped in snow, both at summits and in great rivers of ice down their flanks. They bordered the southwest realm of Vagandrak, running all the way from the Plague Ocean, where glittering metallic waters lapped at shores of fused sand and tainted rocks, a vast crescent of dragon’s teeth curving up to the western Salt Plains, the inhospitable desert of salt that bordered Vagandrak to the west, and which had never been successfully crossed. Or at least, not by anybody who could tell the tale. The Mountains of Skarandos were broken by just one natural pathway through their mass – the Pass of Splintered Bones, and guarded at the southern end of the pass by the mighty vast walls of Desekra Fortress, built from stones mined from the very mountains themselves.

  Now, snow was falling heavily across Vagandrak, and the land seemed to have sunk into a surreal grey witch-light. Mist drifted in thick patches, and silence was heavy at the foot of the Mountains of Skarandos on their northern flanks, where various huge peaks stood as enormous black guardians, like serrated pike teeth, with rocks the size of houses at their splayed toes and steep, stocky, unwelcoming feet.

  There were caves along the feet of that mountain wall, surrounded by a million scattered rocks. Many were shallow, carved by rushing spring melt water, cold from the upper slopes. Some went deeper, but were far too cold, damp and bleak for any kind of reasonable habitation. Now, as snow fell and mist drifted in icy curtains, a face appeared. It was a face that had once been carved by the razors of a savage torturer, a face with only one good eye that worked, the other having been burned out by acid and an unflinching hand. There was tufted stubble on that face in uneven patches, thanks to the criss-cross scarring, and a bleak look to the single eye to match the savage, lifeless scenery, a cynical snarl on scarred lips to make even the most optimistic man look at his own life and future prospects with caution. This could fucking happen to you, that face seemed to say. I was handsome, once. I was happy, once. And then some cunt with an agenda took a razor to my face; took his time, he did. Left me as a proper Pretty Boy. And you know what? You put your foot wrong in this life; you disrespect the wrong people, you fuck over the wrong criminal gangs, and this could happen to you.

  After all... it happened to me.

  Narnok stepped from the cave and stopped, head lifted a little as if sniffing the air. He carried his huge axe in one fist, and in the other a length of rope, which he tugged viciously and with some little joy. King Yoon came stumbling from the darkness, blinking rapidly and coughing up phlegm, which he spat. The noise seemed deafening in the midst of the mist, the snow and the boulders.

  “Looks clear to me,” rumbled Narnok, and stepped down the slope sending rocks tumbling, skittering, clattering.

  Trista and Zastarte came next, also blinking but taking deep, exaggerated breaths, glad to be out of the tunnels; glad to be out of the dark. Next came Sameska, lifting his long fingers up to cover his eyes like bars. He limped into the open and stood, lips working noiselessly, nostrils quivering; a tiny keening sound came from deep within him. He was free of his imprisonment. Free of King Yoon’s torture cell. For now.

  Finally, wary of the elf rat in their company, Dek and Kiki brought up the rear, hands never straying far from sword or knife and looking around themselves, gazing with long years of wariness at the many places an ambush could lurk.

  “You think Yoon’s soldiers know about this exit?” said Zastarte, taking several steps forward, his neat boots causing nothing but a stirring of pebbles. He frowned in annoyance, noticing the scuffs on the leather. “That just won’t do,” he muttered.

  “Well, they’re not here yet, lad,” rumbled Narnok.

  “There’s always time,” said Yoon, smoothly, and shook back his hair. Despite his bindings, despite the accumulated filth from days spent under the mountains, despite the dried blood in his nostrils, he set back his shoulders and lifted his head high, eyes challenging. Yoon had a natural haughtiness, an arrogance born of an entire life pampered, an entire world which bowed to do his will.

  Narnok laughed, and cuffed him round the ear. “Well, if they show now, lad, we’ll give them a fucking good run for their money.”

  Now it was Yoon who smiled, despite the blow. “Indeed you will. And later, when I have your head on a spike mounted at floor level in one of my many palaces, I will often use you as a latrine as I piss in your bloody eye and gormless slack mouth.”

  Narnok’s smile fell and his axe came up.

  “No!” snapped Kiki, stepping forward. She glanced around. “No time for this. It will be night soon. We need to find some shelter.”

  They marched north through the vast army of boulders, Sameska limping in their midst, an oddly silent member of their group. As they walked, Kiki watched him constantly, the wonder in her eyes at such an unusual creature marred only slightly by the horror stories told to all children about the elf rats during stormy nights after they’d broken crockery during washing up chores.

  If you’ve been a bad girl, they will crawl through the city sewers, crawl up the wall of your house like a slow-moving ivy creeper, and step into your bedroom.

  What will they do then, Mam?

  Then, it’s time for the elf rat to eat naughty little girls with teeth like thorns and hands like brambles!

  With an early night darkness fast descending, Narnok spied the edges of woodland and they angled north and east, leaving the plain of huge boulders behind, and wandered across snow laden moorland peppered with rocks and streams. The woods
were silent, dark, enclosing, and as the weary party crept under boughs covered in snow, Narnok leading the way, the distant howl of a wolf came like a strangled cry from the north. It dropped off, gradually, into silence, and the Iron Wolves exchanged glances.

  “I think we should build a fire,” said Dek, glancing north. He was a big man, powerful: a brutal pit fighter. But he knew the reality of starving wolves in winter. Knew their cunning, and knew their savagery. The lonesome howl was not a good omen.

  “I agree,” said Kiki, quietly.

  They moved under the high canopy of leafless oak and ash, and towering pines that swayed softly, snow trickling down like stray sugar. They found a dry place where the snow had not managed to intrude. Narnok dragged three fallen logs into a rough “U” shape, and gathered some rocks in which to build a fire. Sameska sank gratefully to the ground, rough face pale, exhaustion etched like acid into his eyes and movements. The others gathered wood whilst Narnok tied Yoon to a nearby tree trunk by his throat and arms, which were bound behind his back. Yoon sank to the ground, leashed and pale and with eyes full of absolute hate.

  “You will die for this, you big ugly fucker.”

  Narnok rumbled laughter at him, and moved back to the ring of rocks, dumping his pack and pulling free a reasonably sized cooking pot and various utensils, including salt. The pot was black from old use, and he’d picked it up in the storeroom back under the Mountains of Skarandos. He turned it over in his hands, inspecting the quality of the brazing, the old blackened aspect, which spoke of many a fine meal around a hearty campfire. For some reason, the pot cheered Narnok and he was still gazing at the item as Zastarte returned, arms full of kindling.

  Zastarte stopped. “Nice of you to help us out, old horse.”

  “I was just looking at this pot,” said Narnok.

  “It’s a pot,” said Zastarte, dumping his load of wood.

  “Yeah, but I was just thinking about its history.” He looked up, single eye fixing on the dandy.

  “Its history,” replied Zastarte, voice dry, and level. “The history of a pot?”

  “Yeah. You know! Like what kind of life it’s led, all the meals it could have cooked and people it entertained. The life of the pot!” He saw Zastarte’s face. “It’s fucking life, all right? If it could have told some fucking stories, all right?”

  “Were there some, you know, mushrooms inside this pot of yours?” said Zastarte. “Big purple and yellow ones? Did you taste one?”

  “Hey, fuck off, so-called Prince. I know what I’m talking about.”

  “Well, I’m glad somebody does. Now, light the fire, there’s a good goat. Some of us have serious hunger cramps.”

  After a bit of fighting with damp kindling, Dek took over from a grumbling, mumbling, bad-tempered Narnok. He had a baby blaze going in minutes, and a roaring fire within fifteen. Narnok was still mumbling and cursing as they added dried beef to the pot, and Trista returned with wild onions and mushrooms (along with a quip from Zastarte: “Hey, now we can all start talking to the pot!”, followed by, “I’ll fucking cook you in the pot, you dandy bastard!”)

  As night fell, and another lonely, distant wolf called to the cloud-covered moon, so the fire was roaring and the stew in the pot smelled just fine. They sat around on the logs Narnok had dragged, all except Yoon, who stayed by the tree to which he was shackled, mumbling to himself, cursing them: cursing the Iron Wolves.

  Trista ladled stew into wooden bowls, and they ate in silence, all except Sameska who refused the food with a simple hand wave. “I cannot eat meat,” came his gentle, lulling voice. “None of my kind eat meat.”

  “What do you exist on then, lad?”

  “We have various ways of feeding,” said Sameska, glancing up with his large, yellow eyes, almost shyly. “We eat what the tree provides; be that moss, or fallen leaves and pine needles, or wild mushrooms and onions, chestnuts, acorns, the seeds of the tree.”

  “Never trust a man who doesn’t eat meat,” rumbled Narnok, scratching heartily at his crotch. “They’re all fucking spineless, weak-kneed and lily-livered. Yellow as a fucking yellow chicken, they are. And I bet you a flagon of whiskey piss…” he gesticulated with his spoon, almost, but not quite, in Zastarte’s direction.

  “Go on, old goat,” smiled Zastarte, taking the bait.

  “I bet a man who doesn’t eat meat, does some of that young boy fancying, I’d wager.”

  “What does that mean?” said Zastarte.

  “You know. Fiddling with boys. Young men. Whatever.” He took another hearty bite of stew-softened beef.

  “Fiddling? You mean some kind of cheating out of his honestly earned inheritance during a bad game of cards?”

  “Noo-ooo, you horse dick. Fiddling. You know. Hands down shorts, fingers up the arse, that sort of man-love-man-love-boy ridiculousness.” Narnok sat back and licked his spoon, his long red tongue easily equal to that of any horse.

  “Don’t go there,” muttered Kiki, glancing up.

  “So then,” and he was smiling broadly, “are you telling me,” Zastarte said, watching in increasing horror as Narnok’s tongue threatened to swamp the utensil, “that you’ve never, ever, used that big red flapping tongue of yours to pleasure a man?”

  Narnok choked, tongue sucked back in quicker than a striking adder and almost dragging the spoon with it.

  Zastarte pressed his advantage. “Are you telling me a Big Man like yourself has never had the joy of taking a cock between his teeth, and sucking another man to the point of pleasurable explosion? Feeling it swell and pump against your tongue, feeling that hot honey squirt into your mouth...”

  “Stop!” roared Narnok, stumbling forward, his spoon striking Zastarte on the nose. “Just shut your mouth now! Before I go and get Old Faithful and carve you a new fucking throat smile. I know you’re just doing it to wind me up, and yes, you get a reaction from me every time. All I want you to know, fucker, is don’t tar me with your own man-loving cock, right?”

  Zastarte considered this, head to one side. “Narnok, my good man? Don’t knock it, until you have tried it.”

  Narnok scowled. “I thought you cheated the wives of wealthy civil servants, dignitaries and politicians out of their wedding vows, orgasms and jewels, in that particular order”

  “I did. I do. But that doesn’t mean to say I don’t enjoy lying with a pretty boy once in a while.”

  Narnok stared back at him. It was a hard, unforgiving stare. The kind of stare that had seen ten big men back down in a tavern brawl. The kind of stare that sent screeching mud-orcs reeling. The kind of stare Narnok used before using his axe to cut a bastard from crown to crotch in a slippery puddle of his own fucking necrotic bowels.

  “You don’t.”

  “I do.”

  “You fucking don’t.”

  “I fucking do. And fucking enjoy the fucking.”

  “So… you stick it, you know, up there.”

  “Yes,” smiled Zastarte, finishing his stew and lounging back with ease, hands behind his head. “It can be tight, I’ll warrant you, and a little oil helps. But that tightness, Narnok, that clenching around your cock… reminds you of that first hot quim, that first desperation is she going to let me, is she going to let me, fingers in, hot and slippery, then pushing inside with absolute disbelief at getting that far and her not pushing you away like all the others with a cheeky giggle and a harder than usual playful slap that isn’t really a playful slap, but a very fucking real warning she’ll go and get her dad and five brothers to break your fucking arms. It’s like that, Narn, all over again. Just close your eyes and enjoy it.”

  “I… I don’t think I could do that. To another man, I mean. I mean, it’s just wrong, right? I mean… it’s the wrong hole, ain’t it? That’s a hole for pushing out with, not pulling in with.” He stared around, and Kiki and Dek burst out laughing. Trista had a twinkle in her eye, and only Sameska stayed still, head tilted slightly to one side, his confusion obvious.

  Narnok growled,
but Kiki leapt across to him, firing Zastarte a warning shot harder than iron to shut the fuck up. Her hand touched Narnok’s lightly, and she looked into his good eye. She gave a little shake of her head, and said, “Don’t let him do it to you again. It’s warm here by the fire. Don’t go storming off.”

  “Well.” Narnok ruffled his feathers, then leaned sideways, addressing Zastarte around Kiki’s protective bulk. “You put your little man sausage near me, lover boy, and I’ll cut the little prick clean off. Now that is Narnok’s promise.”

  “Point taken,” smiled Zastarte.

  Kiki patted Narnok, and slipped him a small silver flask. “Whiskey. It’s Dek’s. Don’t drink it all. This is dangerous country and these are dangerous times; I still need you focused, axeman.”

  “Sure thing, Captain.”

  They bantered around the fire for a while, laughing; the oppression of battle, and the threat of being hung by the very people they were protecting, followed by days under the mountains in oppressive tunnel systems, finally easing from them like garlic through pores, and drifting gradually away. Sameska stayed, sat quietly watching, whilst Yoon crouched against the tree trunk, face in a dark scowl, obviously deeply annoyed by the Iron Wolves’ improving mood.

  Narnok got up, cut a chunk of bread and cheese using his skinning knife, and carried them over to Yoon. “Here you go, lad. Don’t want you starving on us. After all, you’re the king of all Vagandrak, whoooo!” He was grinning. Dek’s whiskey had hit a soft spot.

  Yoon took the food and ate it quickly. Then his dark eyes sought out Narnok’s orb of iron. “You really don’t understand, do you?”

  “I think I understand perfectly,” said Narnok, and Kiki and Dek came up behind him.

  “No, no, no.” Yoon shook his head, long dark curls moving about his shoulders and the rich embroidery of his soiled jacket. “You’ve kidnapped the king. You are guilty of treason. I condemned you to death.”