The White Towers

by Andy Remic

  Carrion smiled a narrow smile and took a step back. “Of course, Mola, I should know better than to poke even the slightest bit of fun at you. You are currently a man without a sense of humour.”

  “Currently? Poke fun at me, cunt, and I’ll feed you to the dogs on the next betting match down at the pit. See how long you last against Duchess, Duke and Sarge. Make a fucking bit of fun out of that one whilst they’re tearing your thigh muscles from your quivering fucking leg bones.”

  “Yes, Mola. Sorry, Mola; don’t know what came over me.”

  “It’ll be my dogs coming over you, you fucker, if you think you can take the piss out of me!”

  Carrion retreated. Mola felt bad. Carrion wasn’t a bad man. Problem was, you showed a bit of weakness in this life and every cuntfuck decided they’d take a slice of you for fucking dessert. And Mola wasn’t a man who liked having slices taken from him. Not without a bit of raspberry jam on the end of his blade, that was for sure.

  “Son of a bitch!” he cursed, making it to the end of the porch. Beyond, he could see his stables. A dog howled, and was quickly silenced. Mola grinned. That was Duke. Or “Big Duke”, as Mola liked to call him during fights in The Dogs. Thirty-nine pit fights and unbeaten. Problem was, now he could only get shit odds so Mola had taken to travelling with the mutt, pitching him in other cities as an Unnamed. It didn’t help that Duke, or Big Duke, carried a fair few scars; but then, Mola was an old dog himself, and had a few tricks up his sleeve. He was currently a dab-hand with a make-up brush.

  Clutching his ribs, the modest-sized man hobbled across the well-kept lawns towards the stables. As he approached, they heard him and began to bark, and howl, and keen at his impending arrival. This filled him with a deep pride and love and a fierce warrior calling. And what he loved most about his dogs, and dogs in general, was their unstinting love for Man. No matter how depraved and twisted a fucker was, in the flesh, in the bone, in the mind, the Dog still loved him. Unequivocally. Without forethought. Without judgement. A dog didn’t care what colour you were, what sex you were, what deformities you carried, what crimes you had perpetrated. He committed to you, and remained loyal to you. And that fucking bonding was stronger than blood. Stronger than fucking family. Hell, Mola had nephews and nieces he’d happily fucking cut up during family get-togethers; cuntfucks whom he wouldn’t piss on if they were on fire for their crimes against humanity and stupidity and the basic law of moral righteousness. Cuntfucks who would have been better on a noose, swinging, such was their misguided basic misunderstanding of the way the universe and the stars and shit worked.

  Mola tutted to himself, and reached the door to the stables.

  Those motherfuckers, he thought.

  He leaned against the wood, panting a little bit. The pain in his ribs was still a bastard, jabbing him like a stiletto dagger through the guts. He paused, panting and licking his lips, and looked down into a trough of water.

  You’re not a pretty man, he thought, eyeing the narrow, pointed features, the brown hair receding to grey at the temples.

  Mola was not a big man. He was modest in height, modest in the broadness of his chest, modest in girth. But he was strong, under that modest exterior. Stronger than a farrier. Harder than a labourer. But it only took one look in those hard, uncompromising eyes to know he didn’t take no shit. No shit from nobody. Never. Ever. Not once. Not fucking once. Mola was not a big man, but he was a Big Man. He’d stab an evil girlfriend in the belly if she crossed him. He’d slit his best friend’s throat over a betrayal. Because he had morals, y’see. And honour. A criminal nobility. He didn’t fuck people over, and if you fucked him over then you’d crossed the line, and if you crossed the line, you’d better fucking watch your back.

  “Getting old,” he muttered to himself, and forced his way forward through pulsing waves of pain and into the cool, calm, pungent area of the stables beyond.

  And then, of course, there was that special thing.

  The Iron Wolves?

  Yes. He was one of the Iron Wolves. Or had been.

  And he was special, even in such exalted company.

  Special indeed.

  His dogs came to him. Each one was big, a wolfhound cross, each with different breeds in various experiments at strength and stamina and ferocity. There was Duchess, the most savage bitch he’d ever met; black and white in patches, her eyes as intelligent as any fucking human he’d ever met. She wasn’t the biggest he’d ever bred or fought, but she was clever; damn clever. And he really identified with her, being less than massive himself and recognising a kindred spirit. She was modest in size, but clever and ferocious and unstoppable. Just like Mola.

  Duke was a black and tan beast, a huge bruiser of a dog who used brute force and open brutality to savage any opponent. Sarge was another huge dog, black as midnight, with soft fur and raggedy ears and a bite that could practically chew through iron. Finally, there was Thrasher, smaller than all the others and, Mola thought, probably insane. He had red eyes and, even for Mola, was a hard bastard to control in any respect. The damn dog simply lived to fight. He was a chaos agent for the dog fraternity, abused, fucked-over, destroyed until he’d chosen to fight back and stomp on every living fucking creature that stood between his own existence and the end of the tunnel he called “Life”. Sometimes, when Mola cuddled him – and Mola liked to cuddle all his dogs, no matter how flea-bitten, wounded or half-chewed – sometimes, sometimes Thrasher gave him that look which said: Man, I am going to chew off your fucking face and enjoy fucking doing it. And Mola believed him. Yet it had never come. And Mola loved him all the same.

  Mola moved into the pens, and they were howling now, and Mola allowed himself to smile. In reality, it was the only time he smiled. When surrounded by his dogs. His little violent loves. His psychopathic fur babies.

  He opened the gates, and they flooded out and over him. He rolled around in the fresh straw, wrestling with each one individually and chastising and swatting muzzles as dog tempers flared and they occasionally snapped at one other with a bit too much savagery.

  His pains, his aches, his worries: all of them fled when he was with his dogs.

  And as he rubbed ears and muzzles and chests, he said, “There’s a big fight coming, you mangy mutts. I hope you’re all ready.”

  It was late.

  Mola had sat on his veranda as a cool wind filled with ice blew in from the just-visible walls of Zanne. The fact that he lived within spitting distance of the city, and yet chose not to accept the sanctuary of her high fortified walls, seemed to rankle a lot of people. Whenever they visited, that was always their first comment:

  But why, Mola? Why live out here? Inside the city you would be more protected! More safe!

  Protected from what?

  Brigands, ruffians, criminals.

  You misunderstand the person I am. Those people. The brigands, the ruffians, the criminals: they need protection from me!

  And he wasn’t joking.

  There had been a night, after drunken revelry, when thirteen men from the city had ridden out after too much ale and whiskey, looking for trouble. They found Mola asleep, his expansive villa seemingly unprotected. They’d kicked from their horses, stumbling drunk, seeking sport, with maybe some demon raging in their young blood and young veins. Maybe they planned a robbery; maybe they just wanted some relief from the boredom of city life in Zanne.

  As Mola told the city guard the morning after, they chose the wrong cunt to fuck with.

  It wasn’t just his short sword that found flesh and bone so irresistible.

  And it hadn’t just been his dogs, although he did let them run riot, biting and snapping and chewing; for, once off the leash and protecting their lovingly beloved master.

  There had been… something else. Dalgoran’s gift.

  Only one of the thirteen hellraisers survived, and he’d been a gibbering wreck when they found him, half-naked and half-chewed up, out in the Wilds. Gibbering about fangs and blood red eyes and anarchy.


  Well. Mola had no regrets, and bad news like Mola travelled far and fast.

  Oh yes.

  Carrion had retired, and Mola rested back in his comfy chair. The cold wind didn’t bother him at all, instead reminding him of his youth, in the army, in the Wolves, training or fighting skirmishes in the White Lion Mountains, or hunting Zakoran bastards across the plains to the south of the Pass of Splintered Bones during several of the coldest winters known to man.

  He rested back. And he closed his eyes. And he dreamt of a time he would be free.

  The cough – a delicate, polite cough – brought him round; brought him back to the world of the living and the sober. Drugs tasted bad in his mouth and he cursed himself. Never mix your medicine with alcohol, his physician had warned. Horse shit.

  Mola opened his eyes and eyed the six men, three of whom were pointing crossbows at him. He didn’t like that. Didn’t like waking up to find strange men threatening violence on his unprotected body. It was a basic unfairness. An ignoring of the basic fucking rules. If you were going to fight, put up your fists and fight. Don’t fucking hide behind projectile weapons and cowardly numbers.

  Mola sighed. “All right. What the fuck do you cunts want?”

  Immediately the leader foregrounded himself. He was dapper, smart, dressed in city finery. Tall, elegant, good looking, he had a small, narrow white scar under one eye and Mola immediately recognised him as Tanza, son of one of the high-ranking officials of the Red Thumb Gangs. Mola frowned. Which one? Dudabai, was it? Or Keranda? Shit.

  So. This was a man not to cross due to lineage and bad parenting. A criminal not to fuck with. A high-flying Red Thumb politician who helped control the city; or at least, the under-city.

  “Quite rude,” said Tanza, stepping forward, polished shoes clacking on the wooden planks of the veranda, and taking a chair, reversing it, sitting, staring at Mola over the soft leather of his deerskin gloves.

  “I’m a rude man,” said Mola bluntly, sitting up slowly and rubbing a hand down his face. “It could be argued that intruding on a man’s estate whilst he’s sleeping is also an act of something less than openness. A rudeness of character, shall we say. Are you a rude character, Tanza?”

  Tanza reddened a little. “Enough of this. You are in my father’s employ. You will listen to what I have to say, and then do exactly what you are told.”

  “Is that so?” said Mola, slowly, rubbing his stubble with a scraping of raw bristles.

  “Oh yes. Or you’ll end up with ten crossbow quarrels in your fucking chest.”

  Mola grunted, moving back slowly, tenderly, pain firing through him. “You have me at an advantage, my dear Tanza. Pray, please do continue.”

  “My father owns you. He owns your dogs. I’d like to… to borrow them.”

  Mola snapped forward, his pretence at relaxing forgotten as he surged towards Tanza, his fists clenched.

  “What?” His brows were furrowed thunder. Then he hissed, and his hand went to his chest and the broken ribs as pain chewed at him.

  “I want to borrow your fighting dogs. My friend, Ebreziel,” he gestured vaguely behind him to where one of the perfume-stinking dandies languished with his crossbow, “is getting married. We are off to Renza to paint the town red and fuck every piece of skirt that isn’t nailed down by an erect cock. We thought it would be fun to run your dogs in a few, ha ha, illegal dog fights. Win us some pretty silver coin to make the evening yet more favourable.”

  “Nobody fights my dogs but me,” said Mola, quietly. Matter-of-fact.

  “We thought, on this occasion, you might make an exception.” Tanza smiled. He had won, and he knew it. Who could not bow to the threat of death under the onslaught of many crossbow bolts? And indeed, who could not do what he – he, backed by his dear father – demanded? One did not cross the Red Thumb Gangs. Nobody. Not the City Watch. Not even the fucking king, and that bastard knew it. They all knew it. It was unwritten gospel. Carved in the stone of men’s hearts by the witness of atrocities across Vagandrak. Red Thumbs were dominant. The shark in the food chain. And nobody bit the shark. Nobody could.

  Mola considered this. He considered his position.

  And Carrion chose that moment to enter, stepping through the door with a startled, “Oh!”. The Red Thumb dandies whirled, there was a sudden twang and the whine of discharged crossbow quarrel. And a thump, as it entered Carrion’s belly. The man folded, dropping to his knees, face ashen as blood pumped out.

  “No!” bellowed Mola, leaping forward, heaving the men out of the way to slide on his knees, grabbing Carrion before he toppled fully to the floor. He cradled Carrion’s head and his hand moved down the man’s body, and came away drenched in blood. Carrion looked up at him, tears in his eyes, confusion in his soul. In his gaze were a million emotions and questions, but more prominent that anything else was the question, “Why?”

  “Sorry about that,” came the smooth voice of Tanza, and he slapped one of his companions – who was looking sheepish – around the back of the head. “You idiot! What were you thinking? No, don’t point that fucking thing at me! You’ve just proved you’re about as reliable as a sausage-skin child protector!” He turned back to Mola, still cradling the dying, blood-frothing figure of Carrion. “Sorry about that, old man. An itchy trigger finger, has the lad. Should put him down at the ranges for some extra training.”

  Mola glanced back down to Carrion. The man was trembling, then went suddenly stiff in a spasm of agony. Gently, he relaxed into Mola, blood drooling down his chin. The bolt had clipped the bottom of one lung. He tried to speak, then his chin sank to his chest and the man died in Mola’s arms.

  Mola eased the dead body of his servant, his friend, to the boards and slowly he stood, and stretched with a wince, and wiped his bloody hands on his pants. Then he turned and looked at Tanza. His face was neutral, an unreadable platter, his small dark eyes without emotion. “So you wanted to borrow the dogs, lad? Follow me.”

  Tanza grinned, suddenly, like an excited schoolboy, and as he followed Mola out onto the neatly hedged lawn, he said, “Gods! What they say about you is absolutely true!”

  “And what’s that, lad?” said Mola, without turning.

  “That you’re a man without emotion. That you’re about as cruel as they fucking come. That you’re the sort of man you don’t turn your back on, for fear of getting a short, sharp dagger in the spine.”

  “So that’s what they say, is it?”

  “It is, Mola, it is! Luckily for me, I have the weight of the entire Red Thumb Gangs behind me! Like an army!” He cackled.

  Mola said nothing, and they reached the stables. Mola paused, breathing in cool night air. He looked to the dark sky where only a few stars twinkled, sparkling against velvet black.

  “There’s snow coming,” he said, at last.

  Inside the stables, there came a yap at the sound of his voice.

  Tanza suddenly scowled. “Stop fucking about, old man, let’s get in there and get the dogs. This game has gone on for long enough. We need to get on the road, for there’s a mighty lot of quim that needs seeing to.” He gave a narrow smile and licked his already wet lips.

  “As you wish,” said Mola, and opened the door, stepping into the gloomy interior. The men crowded in after him, eyes gleaming, eager to see the dogs on which, they hoped, they’d win a pretty amount of coin. After all, Mola was the man to see about dog fighting. Mola was the accepted expert in the field.

  The interior, with its segregated stalls, was dimly illuminated by moon and starlight. It possessed a ghostly, ethereal glow. The dogs rustled and Mola strode forward, opening the four nearest gates. “Duchess, Duke, Sarge, Thrasher – this way!”

  The four hefty animals trotted from their pens and eyed the newcomers. Tanza felt his mouth go dry with a hint of terror. These dogs were big. Fucking big. Not just in height at the shoulders, but in the mass of ridged, solid muscle. You didn’t get muscle like that on a man. Men were soft, pampered by civility an
d society. No. These were primeval. Raw. Savage. Of course, Tanza had seen them fight in the pits – hadn’t everybody? But here, now, up close, close enough to smell, to touch! Well. These creatures were something else.

  “Shouldn’t they,” the man coughed, clearing his throat, “you know, have leads? Or something?” Duchess gave a low growl and Mola touched his index finger to her muzzle. She stopped immediately, eyes fixed on him: her Master. Her God.

  Mola gave him a withering look, and pointed. On a series of hooks were a variety of rope and leather leads, plus various differing sizes of muzzle – some even made from iron mesh. “Help yourselves, gentlemen. I’ll be waiting outside.”

  Mola strode out, leading the four calm, obedient beasts. His fingers flickered in the moonlight and the dogs sat down in a semi-circle, staring adoringly at him. Behind, the Red Thumb men stumbled half-drunk from the stables carrying a variety of leads and muzzles. Lots of muzzles. Mola counted eight and he repressed a smile. They were being a little over-cautious, he reasoned. But then, they were facing a pack of killers, so maybe they should be!

  Tanza stood uneasily, a muzzle in each hand, a lead looped around his neck. In the tavern with a frothing ale in his fist, this had seemed like such a fucking great idea. Now, in the moonlit home of a bastard’s bastard, maybe it didn’t seem too bright. But stubbornness and pride edged through him; he couldn’t back down now in front of his dandy bastard friends. He’d look like an idiot! Tanza, all fucking mouth, they’d say behind his back. Talks the talk, but can’t stand up with the real men. Scared of a bunch of fucking pooches.

  Tanza glanced at Mola. The old bastard’s enjoying this, he thought, before saying, “Here, put the muzzles on them, will you?”

  Mola stared at him, dark eyes unreadable. Definitely enjoying it. “I cannot do that, laddie.” He grinned then. “They’re my fighting dogs. I’ve never muzzled them in my life. Never have. Never will. They’d… behave differently for me, and that would ruin the fights in the pits, which would cost the Red Thumb Gangs a heck of a load of coin. So do me a favour, and don’t ask me to do something that compromises your own father’s fortune. You want them muzzling? You do it yourself.”