The White Towers by Andy Remic

cosiness of the barrack room. The street was deserted, as he would have expected at this time during the middle of the night. He shivered. It felt like somebody had walked over his grave and, frowning, he realised his life as a soldier was done. Done and gone and buried. He’d fought at Desekra Fortress against the mud-orcs; he’d nearly died a score of times. But now, he realised, he had a little baby girl to look after, to bring up in the cold cruel world, and a massive responsibility shifted and lay across his shoulders like a heavy leather cloak. What would little Mia do if Daddy got killed in a stupid pointless battle? Who would be there to look after her?
    He pocketed his brandy. No.
    It was time to finish this life of soldiering. Time to put it behind him.
    And do what? mocked a sardonic part of his consciousness.
    He smiled. That didn’t matter.
    Belton would find a way. He always did.
    To the left, two cats shrieked as they came flying from the gloom of a darkened alley. They crouched in the middle of the road facing one other, hissing, each with a paw raised threateningly, ears back, fangs displayed.
    Belton grinned.
    Nature of the fucking beast, he thought.
    The cats attacked, an insanely fast scrabbling of claws as tufts of fur flew. And then… Belton blinked, turning right, as at least a hundred figures drifted and limped down the street from gates now twisted from their hinges. A blast of… something hit Belton, a warm wind, filled with the scent of… of pine? Like a pine forest after heavy rain. And Belton staggered, eyes wide, staring at the creatures filling the street, moving past him, ignoring him… until he drew his sword, mouth suddenly dry because this… this was not a fucking good place to be, and he had to get back in, grab the bell, sound the alarm–
    “Atta–” he started to scream as three of the creatures detached from the flood and launched at him. He grunted, side-stepping, sword hacking down to chop into a creature’s neck. The iron blade bit deep, crunching through bone and flesh, but the creature seemed to shrug off the wound and came on, claws slashing for him, pushing past his own considerable strength like a root easing through the cracks in a stone wall and it all happened so fast, panic splashed across him and he felt fangs puncture his neck, biting – no chewing , burrowing – into him. He started to punch the beast as the other two bit into his arms, and with legs kicking he was dragged out and away from the barracks, into the throng of creatures that, in the sudden panic and chaos of thrashing, seemed to have the faces of elongated rats…
    Belton lay on the cobbles, gasping, blood bubbling on his lips.
    The creatures had moved on. Past him. He needed to ring the bell.
    His hand came up to try and stem the flow of blood at his neck, and with horror he realised all his fingers had been chewed off. Only his thumb remained, his whole hand looking misshapen and strange and frightening.
    I’m going to die.
    The concept arrived suddenly, completely formed, and a shiver racked his body. He could feel the thump of his heart. Felt it slowing.
    No, he thought. No!
    Who would look after Mia?
    And he pictured the beautiful babe in his arms, her little scrunched up face, that little upturned nose.
    And silver tears glistened on his cheeks.
     
    Chalandra was having a very bad dream. Dressed in her white wedding dress, the one she’d never had a chance to wear, she walked through never-ending fields of black poppies. She stopped, knelt, plucked one – and recoiled as she realised the centre of the flower was the screaming face of a man, face writhing, teeth gnashing. She strained to push herself away from the flower, and although she could gain distance at arm’s length, she could not force her fingers to open; could not drop the abomination.
    She awoke with a start, the taste of last night’s liquor bad on her tongue, sour against her teeth. Her daughter, Torney, stood in the