The White Towers

by Andy Remic

  “This is how I look,” said Lorna, sadly. “This is how you created me. How you gave birth to me. How I was cursed.”

  “No!” screamed Gwynneth. “Never! You are no child of mine! Get out, get out of my house!”

  The door opened at that moment, revealing Sweyn and the blonde-haired six year-old close behind. The large man’s arms were laden with loaves as his eyes fell on Lorna and his face showed a sudden shock and disbelief as realisation bit deep.

  Gwynneth was sobbing.

  Sweyn leapt into action, dropping his burden of bread and leaping at Lorna, his fist flying, knocking the deformed girl to the ground. His boots thudded with sickening cracks, and taking up a wide pick-handle from the corner of the hut he beat at the stricken figure before him as a sobbing, wailing Gwynneth backed into the gloom of the hut.

  “Get out, you monster!” snarled Sweyn.

  Lorna crawled to her knees. Blood glistened against her yellow skin. She pointed at him accusingly with a shard of arm bone. “Why do you beat me, father?” she enquired, voice perfectly calm and serene.

  “What? Get out, you disgusting creature; get out of my home!” he roared.

  Lorna smiled, sadly. “I am what you made me.”

  The pick-handle whistled, striking Lorna a vicious blow across the forehead and knocking her to the earth. Stooping, despite his loathe to touch the devil, Sweyn grabbed the ragged, blood-stained clothing and dragged Lorna out into the snow.

  “What do we do now?” wailed Gwynneth. “Oh, Sweyn, what do we do? Is it really our Lorna?”

  Sweyn stared at the unconscious creature before him, where blood soaked in and stained the snow.

  “No,” he said at last. “This is a dark devil, a demon come to taunt us with memories of our past misery. I will carry it up onto the hill and burn it, so that its evil will no more be spread to good, honest people.”

  “Shall I tell the Council?”

  “Shusht, woman. The Council could do no good… you can see as well as I that this beast is evil. A shape-changer. A devil! Take Suza indoors and I will finish this business.”

  Gwynneth ushered the blonde-haired child inside and passed out an oil-filled lantern to Sweyn. The door squeaked shut and he was left in the fire-flickering darkness with the creature of darkness. He reached down, hoisted the slim and lightweight being to his shoulder and set off away from the village, his trail marked by a passing circle of lantern amber as he followed a narrow track across the fields and up towards the sacrificial altar sitting squat and ugly atop Grey Hill.

  Sweyn’s mind was in turmoil…

  It is a devil, he thought. A demon of the forest.

  It must be burned, destroyed, with nothing left to haunt us.

  But what

  what if

  what if it really is our daughter?

  No! screamed his brain. I could never sire something so hideous… so deformed.

  He halted, panting under his burden, despite the lack of any real weight. The thing moaned a little and, cursing, Sweyn pushed on. Snow began falling, heavily this time, and he was cold and shivering as he reached the hilltop. He dumped the moaning figure of the deformed girl on the wide stone slab and, without waiting, undid the stopper in the base of the lantern, allowing thick oil to splash across Lorna’s clothing. Then, stepping back, he smashed the lantern against Lorna’s head and skipped away as flames engulfed the creature, yellow demons dancing through the cloth and flesh and Sweyn, face heavy with sweat and a sudden fear, turned and sprinted down the hillside, away from the burning horror struggling to rise on the altar of ancient stone.

  Snow fell.

  The Palkran Settlement sat under the weight of darkness. A few people had seen the small fire atop Grey Hill, but none had gone to investigate. Instead, they huddled in the warmth of their homes, and pondered, and slept.

  The lonely howl of a wolf drifted through the downfall.

  There came a gentle padding of paws.

  Followed by a knocking. Raw knuckles on rough-sawn planks.

  Sweyn, who had not been able to sleep and was shivering from the cold, pulled on his boots and opened the door to his cabin. Outside stood a vision from recent nightmare… the burned child, naked and terribly scarred by flame, stood with smoking hair and a grim smile touching her forlorn face. Around her sat three huge wolves, their pale yellow eyes fixed on Sweyn.

  With a yelp, the man turned to run – but was picked from the floor and hurled across the inside of the cabin with such force that his skull smashed open against the wall, leaving a trail of blood, brain and bone shards smeared indelibly against rough timbers. Sweyn’s corpse slumped to the hearth with a sigh of escaping death-air.

  Gwynneth screamed.

  And Lorna spoke a word of True Power.

  Gwynneth’s hair and clothes ignited, flames searing up to catch the roof of the cabin. She ran, screaming, towards the door, which thumped shut, and in seconds the whole cabin was ablaze. Other tribesmen rushed from their huts at the sounds of screaming, but the wolves leapt amongst them, tearing at throats and faces and the villagers fled away in panic leaving Lorna and the blazing cabin and the fall of snow completely alone.

  Several of the men, having gathered weapons, returned with grim faces and a conviction of duty and honour. Lorna turned her gaze on them. Her lips whispered and lightning crackled in the heavens above, smashing down to pulp the armed men into smears of grease against the ice. Lorna, eyes glowing in the blaze of the roaring cabin, threw wide her arms and yet more fire demons sprang up in other, nearby cabins. The fires quickly spread, dancing from roof to roof, and flames roared and the remaining villagers fled out into the darkness toward deep snow-fields, deeply afraid of the fury-filled demon and its pitiless, attacking wolves.

  Lorna turned back to Sweyn and Gwynneth’s cabin; but instead of her fury abating, it increased. They had tried to murder her. She disgusted them. Her eyes glowed with an orange light and she strode between the flaming cabins. A child darted left, and one of the wolves leapt upon the little boy, fangs tearing at his throat and head. Tiny fists grappled with the beast but ceased to struggle after three or four heartbeats.

  Lorna reached the edge of the Palkran Settlement, her frame a small dark hole against the roaring flames that had swept through every home and sent huge columns of black smoke billowing upwards, cutting through the fresh fallen snow.

  She gazed down into the field where most of the tribes-people had gathered, and she felt their cold, and their loathing; their fear, and their hatred. Cold blue eyes hating the unknown. Petty people, she thought. With such limited understanding and emotion.

  Her hand raised, and the people started to shiver, breaths pluming, turning blue and purple, becoming rigid with ice.

  Lorna’s eyes closed. She felt the power within herself, but more: within every living thing around her. Within every rock and tree and flake of snow; within every river and mound of earth and flower and living cell.

  The energy of the elements.

  The power of the Equiem.

  Lorna whispered a word, then looked once more at the tribes-people. They were still huddled together in a huge, chilled mass; but as Lorna hobbled closer on her stumps she could see the rimes of ice crystallised on lips, could distinguish the glint of ice in hair and beard, could see the blue-tinge of fresh frozen skin. She moved towards a large man, and touched him with the point of her stump. He shattered, revealing frozen organs and bones and intestine. Lorna wrinkled her nose and turned back to the three wolves, which sat: obedient, patient, waiting.

  “Now it is time to visit Haleesa,” she said.

  The fire had gone out in the cabin’s hearth, and the cabin and the world inside nestled in complete and utter darkness. With wolves padding behind her, Lorna walked wearily to the cabin door and pushed it open. Despite her exhaustion, she was wary. She expected violence. Some form of attack.

  Instead, Haleesa was seated, facing the door, tears running down her ancient, wrinkled face.
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br />   “What have you done, dear child?” she whispered.

  “They tried to murder me,” said Lorna, bluntly.

  “Ahh.” A deep sigh. “You abused your powers, and you abused the energies of the Shamathe.”

  “Yes.”

  They stared at one another for a long time.

  “You must leave here,” said Haleesa, gently, and with care. “You must leave me.”

  “But, mother…”

  “I am not your mother. You killed her. Destroyed her. Burned her alive. You have in you a seed of evil, child; and I fear you like I have never feared anything in this world.”

  Lorna nodded, and turned, her back to Haleesa. But she did not move, and for a long, terrible moment Haleesa thought she was going to feel the wrath and hate of the frighteningly powerful young girl.

  Instead, Lorna spoke.

  “Let me leave you one gift,” said Lorna, her words so soft that they went almost unheard over the moaning of the wind in the trees, the ice in the skies.

  Lorna walked away, the three wolves at her heels, and she disappeared into the forest.

  Haleesa frowned, and stood. The movement was fluid, and she turned, wondering at the release of pain in her arthritic hip. Has she healed me, thought the old Shamathe. Has she removed my terrible pain?

  She knelt, adding twigs and a few logs to the almost extinguished fire. Soon, she had blown flames into life and watched the flickering demon devouring the wood. And then she noticed her hand – the skin was smooth, white, unblemished. She gasped, her hands coming up to her face to feel that all the wrinkles had gone. Haleesa rushed to a cupboard on the wall and pulled free a polished bronze pan – and gazed at her distorted reflection, and could see that her youth had returned.

  Stripping herself of clothing, Haleesa gazed down at her naked limbs. She was slim, supple, beautiful. Her long legs were straight and powerful, her hips wide and good for childbirth. She felt her hair – rich and luxuriant, reaching below the nape of her neck. It had returned to its full, deep redness.

  She ran to the door of the cabin, and stood naked under the falling snow.

  The cold did not touch her.

  “It is a gift I do not want!” she screamed at the forest. “I do not want it!”

  Her echoes were dulled by the snow, and Haleesa fell to her knees, weeping into her hands.

  The old man came to her.

  “You can make an offer?”

  “Yes.”

  “You can cure her?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t know what to do. I am… lost.”

  “I know.”

  Haleesa stared at the man, with his finery and his uniform, with his haughty regal features, with his inherent nobility and his promise of honour and good things to come. She allowed hope to burn a little candle in her soul. And she wondered if she was a fool.

  “She killed her mother. Her father. Her sister.”

  “I know this, also.”

  “But you can still help her?”

  “I know of her deformities. I also know of her… great power. I believe I can channel her. I believe I can focus her. I believe I can make her good.”

  “And you think I fucking believe you?” hissed Haleesa suddenly, glaring at the middle-aged man. “You think I’d entrust a wounded human being into your charge? A child so powerful you could use her for very great evil?”

  The man seemed to consider this. “Yes,” he said. “I think you would.”

  “Why?”

  “You have had enough of hiding the lie. What I can do… it is magick. Real magick, not petty illusion. I can heal her, Leesa. Heal the child. Make her whole again. Make her pure again. Make her care again.”

  “You are sure of this?” She dared to believe.

  “I swear to you. By all the gods. By the Seven Sisters. By the Powers of the Equiem. By the twisted energies of the old gods: the bad gods, the twisted gods.”

  “Then do so. With my blessing. But protect her. Nurture her. Love her.”

  He smiled, and bowed his head. He reached out, and touched Haleesa’s old woman’s young flesh. He stroked her cheek, and stared into her eyes, and she found that she believed him.

  “I will do so,” said General Dalgoran. “You can trust in me.”

  THE BOX

  The cave was surreal. Dark and wondrous, a volcanic space, a forced pressure chamber of igneous creation, organic construction, chaotic revelation. Dropping down from a high platform, Kiki stood for a moment just enjoying the experience. She’d never experienced anything quite like it.

  “Amazing,” said Dek, coming up beside her.

  “So you like this sort of shit?” She stared at him, head cocked to one side. “I thought you’d be more interested in, you know, cock-fighting, and bear-baiting, that type of machismo horse shit. Not some fucking rock formations which look kind of nice.” She smiled to take the sting out of her words.

  “I love the thought; the concept. Volcanic insanity. All that hot, pressurised, molten rock forcing itself through the ground. I kind of empathise. That’s how my mind feels just before a fight.”

  They moved on, emerging onto another ledge, which wound around the massive cavern containing the iron box; containing the hidden, ancient prison belonging to King Yoon. And, after what seemed like hours, they dropped to the floor and approached the sheer, vast wall of iron. It was a damn sight bigger up close. Vast, towering, mammoth. It made the Iron Wolves look up; and up, and up, straining their necks.

  Kiki glanced back, and both Narnok and Dek gave her a nod.

  They unsheathed swords, and Trista and Zastarte followed suit, producing their own weapons.

  Kiki stepped forward, glanced up once more at the sheer iron wall, then inserted a key into the lock. Then she tried another. And another. On the seventh attempt, there came a deep, heavy click, and a sound like a pendulum swinging somewhere far above, deep within the heart of this huge metal box.

  “It would appear we are in,” said Kiki.

  Narnok tugged Yoon’s lead. “Come on, you back-stabbing mad-arse bastard. Let’s see what you’re hiding.”

  The door swung open, and the Iron Wolves were greeted by a short corridor with blank iron walls. They stepped in, moved down to a black iron gate which swung open easily under Kiki’s touch.

  They were in a vast chamber, the ceiling soaring off high above. It was lined with cells on four levels with balconies, opening out to, and overlooking, a central space. The whole place was filled with rust and shadows. Along the walls tiny orange globes lit the space, but not enough to banish demons and shadows. Each level’s balcony was lined with ornate iron barriers, presumably to stop prisoners falling to their deaths. Rust clung to each surface like a new lover.

  Narnok whistled, single eye lifting, scanning the high walls around the exterior of the huge space. “There must be, what? Five hundred cells? This is some bloody prison, I’ll give you that, Yoon.”

  “It is an unused unit,” said Yoon, quietly.

  “Yeah, right,” snapped Kiki.

  They moved forward, and stopped suddenly as soldiers drifted from the edges of the huge chamber, like ghosts emerging from a darkened tomb. They walked with elegance; each man was tall, bearing pale white skin and dark crimson eyes. Each man was startlingly similar to his comrade, sporting long white hair dropping to shoulders, and each of a similar slim, athletic build, wearing the same dark clothing, the same black armour, archaic and inlaid with silver runes.

  Kiki lifted her sword, eyes scanning left and right; then spinning slowly on her heel as she realised these warriors had also emerged from behind, stepping free of hidden alcoves in the darkness. There were twenty of them, at Kiki’s count. They moved forward until they formed a circle around the Iron Wolves.

  “Who’s your leader?” she snapped. “Show yourself.”

  “We have no leader,” said one man, stepping forward, “but I will act as our Voice. You are intruders here. You must leave this place.”


  “Or else what, lad?” growled Narnok, hefting his double-bladed axe with obvious threat; a promise of oblivion.

  “We will force you to leave,” said the delicate, pale-faced warrior, and drew his sword with a sibilant hiss. The weapon was long, black and etched with silver runes that glittered. The blade was nicked in several places hinting at experience in battle. And the fact the warrior was not cowed by the demon-like visage of Narnok, with his one missing eye and criss-cross of terrible scars, showed either very great bravery, or a considerable amount of stupidity.

  “We have your king,” said Kiki, and smiled slowly. Narnok gave a tug on the leash and Yoon stumbled forward, where he dropped to his knees. Then his head came up, and his dark eyes were gleaming like the oil in his dark curls.

  “Don’t listen to them,” snarled Yoon, voice ringing out “kill them all!”, before Narnok back-handed him across the mouth, smashing the king aside where he lay, stunned like a clubbed fish on the cold smooth stone.

  Kiki stared around her at the twenty armed warriors. Their faces were impassive, even at this mistreatment of the king. Their king? She gave a little internal shrug. She licked her lips. “Let me explain how this can play out. This bastard,” she gestured, “is hiding something here. All we want to do is have a little look around. Then we’ll be on our way.”

  The Voice of the pale-skinned soldiers gave a narrow-lipped smile. “We cannot let you explore this place, Kiki of the Iron Wolves. Take my word for it, there is nothing – nothing at all – of interest to you here. This old prison is an empty shell. It contains no surprises.”

  “We are going to look around, you fuckers,” growled Narnok, and Kiki flashed him an annoyed glance.

  “I would like to avoid bloodshed,” she said, smiling at the man. “Your bloodshed. Now stand down your men.”

  “I will not.”

  “So be it,” said Kiki, and advanced.

  The twenty warriors drew blades, and without cries, without expression, in complete silence, they suddenly attacked. The Iron Wolves kicked apart, forming a tight circle within the enemy circle, each covering the other’s backs. The first warrior reached Kiki, sword slamming down; her own blade parried with a shower of sparks and she dropped her shoulder, punching him in the groin; then an uppercut to the chin; she deflected the blade of a second soldier and ploughed her sword through the first’s eye. The blade lodged for a moment in the eye socket as he screamed, a sudden loud wail that broke the stillness of the ancient iron prison, but Kiki twisted her wrist and the blade unhooked from bone and withdrew, mashed brains painting the iron tip.