descended into silence. Nobody entered. Nobody left.
It took Vagan a little while longer, mainly because of the garrisons of King’s Guard stationed in the Keep. But even that, after hours of bloody, relentless fighting, was overrun. Many soldiers were hung by the neck from the city walls, eyes bulging, bowels hanging down beneath their boots like some obscene painting from The Abattoir Monologues . Finally, the city gates slammed shut. Huge bolts, wider than a man, were slid into place with grating squeals. And the country’s war capital, to all intents and purposes, became a silent, mourning, motionless graveyard.
And Zanne. Zanne was the last to fall. The high black gates – the northern Corpsefield Gate, the eastern Winter Gate, and the southern Royal Gate – all were shut with resounding thuds, like the heavy stone lids slammed on a massive, desolate, sealed stone tomb.
MOLA
Mola sat in a rough wooden chair at a rough wooden table outside his villa, listening to the sway of the trees, his legs warming in the weak sunshine, and thought about the pain. It nagged him worse than any fish woman at the market whom he’d bedded and cast aside. It throbbed inside him, worse than any physical invasion of a blade he’d ever had to deal with – and that number measured quite a few. From bottom to top, his left knee was barely weight-supporting, and was raised with angry purple bruises. His left thigh, from knee to hip, was one huge bruise like a lightning filled sky during a summer storm. His hip, surprisingly, had survived the impact, but under his left tit two ribs were broken and constantly clicking, forcing Mola to adopt a slightly effete posture where he cupped his left wrist under his breast, pressing his ribs to offer some modest external support. Above that, his breast bone also clicked when he moved in any way whatsoever, bringing a curse to his lips from the gentlest of manoeuvres. The back of his shoulder and neck was a mass of throbbing, rigid, humming tendons, a cauldron of intense agonies, a platter of pain that made him grin like an idiot and curse like a sailor. But the final reigning glory was his left shoulder – or more precisely, the tip of his shoulder where one major part of the impact had occurred. His physician had called it a possible “rotator cuff injury”, and he was glad to have had that told to him, but to Mola it was simply the place that, when pressed even gently, made him squeal like a virgin pig having the sacrificial spit-roast spear thrust up its nethermost. He continually attempted to press that area of his shoulder, searching for some improvement. It made him scream every time. And yet, every single damn day, as if in some perverse search for personal masochism and redemption, he’d probe gently at the shoulder, dancing around the fiery hot area until morbid curiosity finally championed and he dug in a finger. “Aiiieee,” was normally the retort, and further curses, which highlighted why he should be doing exactly what his physician advised and bloody resting.
The problem was, Mola wasn’t the sort of man to rest easy. That’s what happened when you not only trained the fighting dogs for the Red Thumb Gangs, but ran the most lucrative illegal dog-fighting pit in the whole of Vagandrak. Called The Dogs, it was a class pit. Only the best for Mola’s fighting dogs. And if you didn’t like it? If you were an awkward motherfucker? Well, you got fed to the dogs.
His right hand came over and pressed tentatively at his ribs. Something went click . “Son of a bastard’s bitch’s bastard,” he muttered, face scowling, dark shaggy brows meeting in the centre, lank ragged hair tossing about his broad round head. “Fucking horses. Fucking stallions. Fucking wagers!”
“You still sore, boss?”
“Yes, Carrion. I am still fucking sore.”
Carrion scrunched up his face. “Well, it’s been a whole week, boss.”
Mola gave Carrion a look that would have had the
It took Vagan a little while longer, mainly because of the garrisons of King’s Guard stationed in the Keep. But even that, after hours of bloody, relentless fighting, was overrun. Many soldiers were hung by the neck from the city walls, eyes bulging, bowels hanging down beneath their boots like some obscene painting from The Abattoir Monologues . Finally, the city gates slammed shut. Huge bolts, wider than a man, were slid into place with grating squeals. And the country’s war capital, to all intents and purposes, became a silent, mourning, motionless graveyard.
And Zanne. Zanne was the last to fall. The high black gates – the northern Corpsefield Gate, the eastern Winter Gate, and the southern Royal Gate – all were shut with resounding thuds, like the heavy stone lids slammed on a massive, desolate, sealed stone tomb.
MOLA
Mola sat in a rough wooden chair at a rough wooden table outside his villa, listening to the sway of the trees, his legs warming in the weak sunshine, and thought about the pain. It nagged him worse than any fish woman at the market whom he’d bedded and cast aside. It throbbed inside him, worse than any physical invasion of a blade he’d ever had to deal with – and that number measured quite a few. From bottom to top, his left knee was barely weight-supporting, and was raised with angry purple bruises. His left thigh, from knee to hip, was one huge bruise like a lightning filled sky during a summer storm. His hip, surprisingly, had survived the impact, but under his left tit two ribs were broken and constantly clicking, forcing Mola to adopt a slightly effete posture where he cupped his left wrist under his breast, pressing his ribs to offer some modest external support. Above that, his breast bone also clicked when he moved in any way whatsoever, bringing a curse to his lips from the gentlest of manoeuvres. The back of his shoulder and neck was a mass of throbbing, rigid, humming tendons, a cauldron of intense agonies, a platter of pain that made him grin like an idiot and curse like a sailor. But the final reigning glory was his left shoulder – or more precisely, the tip of his shoulder where one major part of the impact had occurred. His physician had called it a possible “rotator cuff injury”, and he was glad to have had that told to him, but to Mola it was simply the place that, when pressed even gently, made him squeal like a virgin pig having the sacrificial spit-roast spear thrust up its nethermost. He continually attempted to press that area of his shoulder, searching for some improvement. It made him scream every time. And yet, every single damn day, as if in some perverse search for personal masochism and redemption, he’d probe gently at the shoulder, dancing around the fiery hot area until morbid curiosity finally championed and he dug in a finger. “Aiiieee,” was normally the retort, and further curses, which highlighted why he should be doing exactly what his physician advised and bloody resting.
The problem was, Mola wasn’t the sort of man to rest easy. That’s what happened when you not only trained the fighting dogs for the Red Thumb Gangs, but ran the most lucrative illegal dog-fighting pit in the whole of Vagandrak. Called The Dogs, it was a class pit. Only the best for Mola’s fighting dogs. And if you didn’t like it? If you were an awkward motherfucker? Well, you got fed to the dogs.
His right hand came over and pressed tentatively at his ribs. Something went click . “Son of a bastard’s bitch’s bastard,” he muttered, face scowling, dark shaggy brows meeting in the centre, lank ragged hair tossing about his broad round head. “Fucking horses. Fucking stallions. Fucking wagers!”
“You still sore, boss?”
“Yes, Carrion. I am still fucking sore.”
Carrion scrunched up his face. “Well, it’s been a whole week, boss.”
Mola gave Carrion a look that would have had the
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