The White Towers (13 page)

Tanza stared at him, mouth working silently for a moment, then he glanced back at his gaggle of followers. They were staring at him slack-jawed like the bunch of village idiots they most definitely were. Tanza cursed, and strode forward towards the biggest dog, Duke. Always take down the biggest first, then the others would follow like yapping little poodles.

“Whoa, lad. I wouldn’t do that.” Mola’s words were edged with real concern.

Tanza froze, mid-stride, in what he realised was a deeply comical pose. He cocked his head towards Mola, and snarled, “And why the fuck not?”

“You’ve got to muzzle the leader of the pack. Or it’ll turn on you, lad. They’ll all turn on you.”

“Which one’s the leader?”

“Duchess. The black and white one.”

“What? That
bitch
is the leader of the pack?”

“Aren’t they always?” said Mola, quietly, dark eyes glittering.

Tanza turned, and moved – edged – towards the perfectly calm, motionless dog. The bitch was still large for a dog, just not as large as the other, more terrifying beasts. Tanza’s hands were slippery as he took the lead from around his neck and attached it to the metal ring on the muzzle he held. He inched closer. Duchess started to pant, but her eyes were on Mola, not Tanza, and she gave no outward sign of aggression.

Tanza stopped, and leaned close. The muzzle seemed ineffectually small and feeble in his hand, like a wooden toy sword in the fist of a gladiator, and he wondered if he cut a comedy picture; like a dwarf trying to ensnare a lion with a bit of rope.

“Er. Good doggie?”

“Duchess,” said Mola, quietly, as clouds passed over the moon, chasing rushing shadows across the lawns like escaped ghosts. One of the bitch’s ears twitched. “Kill.”

With a savage snarl Duchess lunged forward, jaws wide, brushing aside the muzzle and closing over Tanza’s hand. There came a crunch, a twist of the head, a shake, then a deeper, snapping crunch and Tanza stumbled back, screaming, his stump waving in the air with a shower of blood droplets spraying across black grass. Duchess, standing broad, hackles raised, fangs bared, growling, chewed the hand, mangling the fingers, as Mola screamed, “Duke! Sarge! Thrasher!” His hand swept towards the men. “Kill them all!”

The dogs snarled and leapt towards the group of men, who back-pedalled frantically. There came the whine of a crossbow, then another, one bolt thudding into the earth, another chewing the wood of the stables, but it was too late and the dogs hammered into the group of milling men and…

…the screams began.

Thrasher bit one man’s face off in a shower of blood, paws scrabbling at his chest for purchase as the dog rode him to the ground. Then his fangs lowered, and the screams suddenly stopped as the big dog chewed out his throat. Sarge hit two, bowling them from their feet. They scrabbled for knives and swords as Sarge closed fangs around one man’s head, pinning him to the ground, kicking and screaming and punching out at the huge dog. Then there came an almost subtle
pop
and fangs crunched through skull and the man suddenly stopped kicking. The second man lunged, his dagger smacking into Sarge, but Sarge felt no pain and spun, the man losing his grip on the blade which bubbled and welled with blood. Snarling, Sarge surged forward chewing through fingers and hands, shredding the skin of the man’s arms and then clamping down on his throat. He screamed and gurgled, as best he could, but Sarge was shaking him like a ragdoll and it only took moments for him to be still, nothing more than a bloody sack of dead, sick flesh. Duke had also leapt, his weight and hefty muscle bearing a man to the ground. A blade deflected from the hard ridges of muscle in his flanks, and his muzzle burrowed deep into the man’s chest, snarling, chewing, tearing, as the man kicked and screamed and tried to wrench the dog’s head from his meat. But it was no use. Duke was too powerful. Too savage. Too primal.

Tanza was running, clutching his stump to his chest where it bloodied his white cotton shirt with lace ruffs and cuffs and spangled gold glitter fabric. He ran for the tall pines and Mola clicked his fingers. Duchess was there, blood staining her muzzle black in the moonlight.

“Bring him down, girl,” said Mola, pointing, and Duchess was gone.

Within several heartbeats Mola heard the squawk, and glancing around himself he pulled free his own dagger, and plunged it through the eye of a squirming man who stiffened, one leg kicking, bowels opening. Then he strode after Duchess. Strode after his bitch.

Entering the trees, total darkness closed like wings.

“Duchess! Lie down!”

Obediently, she lay, glancing back at Mola, seeming to grin beneath the dark towering pines. A wind hissed through the needles high above, making the trees sway. Pine oil and forest detritus assailed Mola’s nostrils. He loved it here. In the dark. In the forest. Accepted into the heart of the trees.

“I can pay! I can pay you money! Lots of money! You know I can.”

Mola stopped, boots crunching dead pine needles. To his right was a fallen tree, and he crossed and sat down on the trunk, placing his hands on his knees.

Tanza was sitting on the ground, having been bowled over by Duchess. It was a miracle she hadn’t torn out his throat, but then she was good like that. Didn’t kill unless told to do so. Not like the others. The boys could be a bit… unpredictable. Whereas Duchess had more brains. More obedience.

“Ahhh,” sighed Mola, rubbing at his stubbled chin. “What to do. What to do.”

“Don’t let them kill me! Please! I was only showing off before those stupid idiots. I won’t tell anybody what your dogs did. I promise. Won’t tell how they…” he shuddered. “Killed my friends.” He clutched his bleeding stump to his chest. His shirt and fine coat were nothing more than gore-ruined, bloody fabric.

“You see, laddie, I have this little problem.”

“I can help with problems. I’m good like that. My father, Fernaza, he has me work in the gambling dens
sorting out problems
.”

“Ahh. Fernaza, is it?”
One of the most powerful, the most feared, the most brutal... clever to slip that little piece of information in. Clever to drop it into conversation right now, just when you think your throat is about to be torn out.

“Yes, that’s my father. If you spare me he will be most pleased. He will reward you! He will see you a rich man.”

Mola considered this.

“I think,” he said…

“Yes? Yes?”

“I think whichever way this thing goes, your father will seek to make me a very fucking dead man. There’ll be no riches for me and my dogs. I think, even for taking your hand, I’d spend an eternity in the torturer’s chair.”

Mola stood up.

“No, no, I have money!”

“Money doesn’t buy you everything, lad. Even for rich spoilt cunts like you.”

“I take it back!”

Mola frowned. “Take what back?”

“What I said! I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it!”

“About being a man without emotion? As cruel as they fucking come? The sort of man you don’t turn your back on, for fear of getting a short, sharp dagger in the spine?”

“Yes. I’m sorry. I retract the insult. You have my hand as vengeance. Please. Let me live.” Tears were spilling down Tanza’s cheeks and Mola moved closer, then sat on the dead pine needles beside the young man. He sighed.

“I don’t like to see a man beg,” said Mola. “And those things you said? Well. Fuck it. They were true.” He relaxed.

“So you’ll let me live? I swear it,
swear it,
my father will never find out. I’ll be in your debt. I’ll owe you my life. I’ll be yours to command. I can get you information. On Red Thumb stashes, more coin than you could carry with a cart. Ten carts! It’s yours. I’ll help you. We can rob the Red Thumbs together!” He laughed insanely, eyes moist, his breath panting like the stink of a rank lion.

“The problem is,” said Mola, carefully, “that your words
were true.
I am a man without emotion. Most of the time. I am as cruel as they fucking come – especially to my enemies. And you, dear boy, are surely one of my enemies. And I am the man you don’t turn your back on – or more precisely, I’m the sort of man you don’t take for a fucking fool. And you’ve pissed on me for long enough.”

Mola rocked back, and stood.

“No!” wailed Tanza. “No! You can’t! My father will have you killed!”

“Duchess?”

A tiny whine. Total focus. Complete obedience.

“Silence him.”

Duchess went to work, and as Mola strode out of the forest, clutching his damaged ribs with a frown, to survey the handiwork of the other dogs, he muttered to himself, “He’ll have me killed? Yeah, well I knew about that already. It’s something we’d already established. Now, take your medicine like a good boy. And don’t damage my dog’s teeth, she’ll be needing them.”

Outside, the wind howled through the trees. Snow was falling heavy. Clouds obscured the moon, and the ancient
Shamathe,
Haleesa, gazed out into the darkness of the thick, oppressive forest. Trees groaned and swayed, pine needles hissing. Distantly, an owl hooted. Behind her sat Lorna, cross-legged, the rounded stumps of her legs resting on the thick wolfskin rug before the fire. A large leather-bound book was balanced on her knees and she was focused, her concentration complete.

Haleesa shivered. Lorna was seven years old, and there was something about the girl which had started to haunt the old woman. It had begun a few mornings ago when Haleesa had been teaching Lorna the basics of illusion…

“Illusions are the simplest and yet the most complex spells a
Shamathe
can cast.”

“Why?” The girl’s eyes were eager, bright and lusting after knowledge.

“They are the simplest, for they require the least amount of actual physical energy. An illusion is a dance of light, and what the
Shamathe
must do is bend that light, make it show new shapes and new colours which do not really exist. A
Shamathe
is merely redirecting energies which already exist and, for this act, little effort is required.”

“Why is it difficult, then?”

“Because the
real
effort comes in the skill, in the manipulation of light. It is like weaving an incredibly complex pattern, at great speed. It requires total concentration and many years of practice.”

Lorna nodded, her tiny tongue licking at her scorched lips.

Haleesa closed her eyes and held out her hand with the palm facing up. In it appeared a tiny dragon, the scales glinting brightly. The dragon breathed a tickle of fire against Haleesa’s fingers and Lorna moved closer, her eyes fixed not only the dragon, but on the woman who formed the illusion…

Lorna nodded–

And Haleesa felt a shudder rack her body. Lorna had not studied the illusion. She had crept inside Haleesa’s mind and studied her technique. Her
mana flow
. The manipulation of light energies.
Hell!

There was a crash outside, and the illusion was gone. Haleesa rushed to the window and her jaw dropped open. Standing, towering over the trees was a huge, black scaled dragon. Its huge, triangular head swayed left and then right, and falling snow settled along its flanks and folded wings. Flames flickered around its snout and it took a step forward – trees were crushed and snapped like firewood under the incredible weight of its bulk.

“No!” hissed Haleesa in alarm.

The dragon’s head dropped, so swiftly Haleesa stumbled backwards as the huge maw loomed towards her, a thick purple tongue flicking within as flames caressed the curved fangs as long as a man’s forearm…

Lorna laughed, a tinkling sound, and the maw – and the dragon – vanished.

Haleesa was shaken, stunned into silence.

Now, in the darkness of the cabin, she found that she was suddenly frightened of the child. The realisation of such superior power was deeply unsettling. The girl was a
Shamathe
, but she was also so much more. She showed little emotion, and possessed a quality, a skein within her soul, which Haleesa had never experienced before, and found hard to trace – to understand.

Outside, the wolves sat under the falling snow at the edge of the forest. As Haleesa watched, they settled to the ground, huge shaggy heads resting on wide paws. One started to lick its paws.

Why are they here, she thought.

What do they want with Lorna?

“I called them.”

“You called them? How?”

“I felt them, lost in the forest. They were starving. I led them to food.”

It was a lie, but Haleesa said nothing. The wolves were more than just thankful animals helped by a mystic child. Lorna had been too young when they first appeared… and their behaviour: it was as if they were protecting her. As if she was their ward.

 

The morning was fresh and cold and crisp. For days they had been working on Lorna’s image: the illusion she would cast of herself in order to walk amongst the people of the tribe. It had been Lorna’s idea, sparked by the realisation: “I want to visit my mother.”

Haleesa looked up from where she was repairing a shawl with needle and thread. Then she gazed back down at the item, a slight tremble betraying her worry. “Why now?” She tried to keep her words calm. Tried to think of a reason for Lorna never to visit her mother again.

“I feel it is time,” said the seven year-old. She smiled a crooked smile at Haleesa. “My blood-mother has not been near me for three years, now. Will you help me make an image for myself?”

And so they had crafted the illusion from light and once it had been woven into a complex tapestry Haleesa stepped back and stared at the beautiful young girl before her. She was slim, with a gentle rounding of youthful womanhood. Long, luxurious black curls fell down her back to her waist and her face was round, white: unblemished skin and neat, even teeth.